One Day at a Time (Deleted Scenes and other Moments from Hotch's Life)
by LetTheLightShine
Summary: A collection of deleted scenes from Hotch's childhood that didn't make it to the final cut of my other stories on this site. Here are commonplace moments that look deeper into Hotch's past. These scenes aren't in my other stories because they didn't flow with the plot very well. Rated T for mentioned child abuse (physical, emotional, and, in Scene 1 only, implied sexual)
1. Scene 1 -- Afternoon at the Park

_**Like I said in the description, these are deleted scenes that didn't fit in my other stories. I had ideas for many more scenes than what made it into "The Worst Fourth Pirate in History" and its sequel "Curtain Call," but they didn't all fit into the plot and some of them are unfinished. However, I do kind of like some of these anyway, so I figured I would finish them up and post them by themselves. There are several scenes to come, and if you read "WFPH" and "Curtain Call," you can probably see why I cut them. I'm not posting these scenes in chronological order, so I'll let you know if one comes before another. Anyway, here they are. Please let me know what you think!**_

 _ **This first scene would have probably taken place around the time of WFPH's first few chapters.**_

 _ **Oh, and I don't actually own**_ **Criminal Minds** _ **. I just pretend to. :) And Hotch is an adolescent in these scenes.**_

 _ **-LTLS**_

— _ **-**_

The grassy park with the sturdy wooden playground and half-fenced basketball court was only a block or two from the school. It was on the way home, sort of, and it made for a much-needed detour.

Aaron Hotchner sat glumly on a swing hanging by two chains on the farthest end of the playground. His toes dangled in the grass, and he shuffled them, barely moving the swing as he did so. He stared at the treeline just past the field of grass and the patch of concrete for basketball. In his imagination, the world slowly faded away and became a better place.

He had an arm hooked around one of the chains and he rested his temple against the links. He could barely move and felt as if a crowd of hornets swarmed all over his back, stinging every inch of him, repeatedly. His lips were lined with bite marks from his attempts at holding back a scream all day. Even in the midst of so many people, he felt utterly alone in the universe of pain.

Aaron couldn't ignore the playful noises all around him and looked over at the playground. A handful of kids, preschoolers and pre-teens mostly, ran screaming through the grass and over the play equipment. Parents sat on benches or in nearby cars, watching their children or reading books. Unnoticed, Aaron gazed at the slides sloping into the sand and the children cascading down them. Two little girls with blond pigtails leapt off the teeter-totter and ran chattering to their mommy in the grass. Mommy handed out crackers and laughed along with their childish jokes. One boy with a crop of sandy hair tripped on a wooden step and skinned his knee. Daddy was at his side in an instant, consoling, wrapping the wound with his kerchief.

Aaron watched expressionless.

One little boy started fussing because his mom said it was time to go home for dinner. "I'm not done yet!" he whined, running just out of her reach.

"We'll come again later. Time to go." His mom scooped him up. "I'll make waffles with berries and real maple syrup!"

"I want to go down the slide one more time!"

 _Go home with your mom, you little brat,_ thought Aaron as the tantruming child got carried into his mother's car. _You don't know how lucky you are_.

Just as the car left, a light blue minivan pulled up, and a small family clambered out. Aaron had never seen them before. The mother, holding a bunch of maps, had a pale complexion and wavy brown hair, but her three children had darker, almost chocolate skin. The boy and two girls left their mom on a bench and ran across the field, all shouting to each other about where they wanted to play first. The boy, about twelve and obviously the oldest, had a basketball and headed straight for the tall, metal hoop. His two sisters raced past Aaron to scramble up the playset. Aaron watched their smiling faces and listened to their radiant chatter as they crossed the monkey bars like gymnasts. They didn't know a trouble in the world.

Suddenly a ball bounced off Aaron's knee. He gasped in surprise and saw the darker-skinned boy come running after his ball.

"Sorry!" the boy called out. "It hit the edge of the hoop. Woulda been a clean shot otherwise!"

"No big deal," muttered Aaron.

Collecting his ball, the boy looked warily at Aaron's gloomy expression. "Do you want to play with me?"

Aaron shook his head. "I'm fine here. Thanks."

Without another word, the boy went back to shooting hoops.

Aaron knew he should head home now. Any later and his parents might get angry. Angrier than usual, that is. But Aaron couldn't move.

Only minutes later, one of the little girls came running to the boy with the ball. "Hey!" she interrupted his solo game.

"What now, Desiree?"

"Where's the bathroom?"

"How should I know?" The boy then turned to the swingset. "Hey, you kid!"

Aaron looked up, a little annoyed. That kid calling him kid was several years younger!

But he meant no harm. "Can you tell us where the nearest restroom is?"

Aaron pointed wordlessly to the brick stall over by the covered picnic tables. Desiree took off running with her big brother watching to make sure she made it safely.

Aaron looked the stranger over. "You aren't from around here, are you?" he asked quietly.

"Nope. Mama and the girls and I are on vacation. We're driving to D.C."

"From where?"

"Chicago." The boy gave a weak, half-grin, as if trying to show some sense of pride for his city. It came across as a wince.

"Hm." Aaron sighed. "Well, I hope you enjoy your trip."

"Trying to." The boy let the ball fall and caught it again as it bounced back up. His voice had somehow lost some level of self-protection. For a second, he actually sounded vulnerable. Sad. Maybe a little scared.

Just then, Desiree bolted out of the outhouse and, with a territorial shout, rejoined her sister on the play equipment. Her brother glanced at her then back at Aaron.

"Have you lived here all your life?" he asked.

Aaron nodded.

"Like it?"

"Some of it. Some of the time." Aaron looked down again.

The boy seemed to have detected the dejected tone of Aaron's voice. He set down his ball at his feet and crossed his arms. "Hey, are you okay?"

It would have been easy to say yes, to pass off an emotionless fib and forget about it. Aaron didn't know this kid, and chances were he'd never see him again. They had nothing in common other than their status as total strangers.

But Aaron couldn't lie to this boy. He didn't know why. The boy wasn't looking for a fight or for a reason to mock him. This boy cared. Besides, he was only passing through town. He wouldn't tattle to anyone Aaron knew, and soon he'd be gone for good.

"No," said Aaron in a faint, choked voice. "I'm not okay."

The boy furrowed his brow, unsure how to respond.

Aaron felt his eyes burn with tears. He bit his lip again and forced his gaze downward. "Someone hurt me," he whispered.

He could hear the birds, the wind, and the children's joyful shrieks more clearly now that he and the boy had fallen silent. Aaron's lip quivered; he twisted his mouth and wiped his eyes with his knuckle.

"I'll be fine," he mumbled. "Go back to your game."

Instead, the boy sat down on the swing at Aaron's right. His legs were shorter than Aaron's and dangled even higher off the ground. They sat silently for a minute, and Aaron did all he could to hold back tears. His fist became so tightly curled on the chain, he knew the links would remain imprinted in his palm for awhile afterward. He trembled as though the temperature in the park had suddenly plummeted to below zero.

Then the boy at his side spoke, very softly: "Someone hurt me, too."

Aaron glanced up at him and saw his tears mirrored in this young stranger's eyes. The boy understood, somehow, and he was suddenly a companion. They didn't need to say anything more. They both knew enough.

Aaron was a little surprised to find the boy's hand outstretched. He reached out his own hand and clasped the boy's. The hand felt small and clammy. It squeezed Aaron's right back.

They sat for awhile on the swings, dangling their feet in the grass, holding hands, saying nothing, but sharing what they could — a peaceful silence. A break. A moment of knowing they were not suffering alone. Aaron found that his hand stopped shaking and his chest felt less tight. Even his many concealed welts and bruises stopped stinging so badly. He found renewed courage for the prospect of going back home.

Only a few short minutes passed before the boy's mother folded her maps and began calling to her children. The dark-skinned boy released Aaron's hand, slid off his swing, and picked up his ball. Aaron watched as he turned to join his sisters.

"I'm Aaron, by the way. What's your name?"

"Derek."

"Have a good vacation, Derek," said Aaron, and he meant every word.

The boy smiled, then ran off to the minivan. As Aaron watched the mother interacting with her children, he knew she didn't hurt them. There was someone else, someone back in Chicago, perhaps, someone monstrous. The very thought made Aaron's heart ache, and he said a silent prayer for this young stranger named Derek. He prayed that Derek would overcome whatever he was going through, and that he would not be destroyed by his secret burden.

 _And, God? I wouldn't mind meeting him again someday. Think You could arrange that somehow?_


	2. Scene 2 -- Empty Chair

_**This scene would have taken place at the beginning of "Worst Fourth Pirate in History." I came up with the idea long after I wrote the beginning, so obviously it didn't get used. What do you think of it?**_

 _ **By the way, later scenes will be a little lighter and hopefully not so intense as these first few. Thanks for reading.**_

— _ **-**_

Margaret Hotchner nibbled her cheese and crackers thoughtfully. A group of in-laws gossiped excitedly at her side, but she had long ago lost interest in the conversation. Margaret kept an eye on the widow of her late brother, watching her body language, her expressions. The woman held her newborn baby and showed him off to another aunt. The baby's name was Sean, and his mother smiled thinly as she talked about him.

Margaret had always liked her sister-in-law. When she first met her brother's fiancee, the woman was an undergraduate at Mary Baldwin College, where she studied graphic design in hopes of working for a magazine like _Vogue_ or _Self_. These dreams were never realized. Instead, she got married and became Mrs. Hotchner full-time. From there on, her life revolved around her Army veteran husband, and Margaret admired the amount of care her brother was given. The fact that Mrs. Hotchner gave up a whole career in order to support her husband and raise their son Aaron truly endeared her to the in-laws.

But when her sole focus and purpose in life — her husband — was taken away by cardiac arrest, Mrs. Hotchner changed. The family feared she might never get over the tragedy.

Margaret remembered her unusual behavior at the funeral. Mrs. Hotchner arrived late with young Aaron at her side, and she was dressed in her Sunday best. Nothing mournful about her appearance or demeanor. While Aaron quietly wept in black attire, his mother remained bright and cheerful. At one point she even asked when the service would be over. When the deceased's parents approached her to demand an explanation, Mrs. Hotchner denied everything they said. She insisted there was a misunderstanding — her husband hadn't died, and she was waiting for him to show up at any moment.

Margaret soon realized the woman had been drinking, and she took her to the in-law's home afterward to sober out. Margaret's sister Rachel sat with Aaron in the parlor while Mrs. Hotchner gradually came to her senses upstairs. Once she realized her husband was really gone, she began yelling at Margaret and wailing for her life to be over. Margaret comforted her as best she could, but the woman was inconsolable. Mrs. Hotchner's frustrated father-in-law ended up serving her a glass of wine just to calm her. Aaron slept over with his cousins that night.

Some believed Mrs. Hotchner's behavior was simply a meltdown of grief, and it would pass when she got over the initial shock. But Margaret was concerned. She had never seen her sister-in-law act like this before. She tried to be supportive, but Mrs. Hotchner only became more withdrawn. Soon she stopped answering calls altogether. Margaret worried about how her nephew Aaron was coping.

But Margaret had her own life to live. Unlike her late brother's wife, she had pursued a career and now worked for a fashion company that produced miniskirts and leg warmers. She was busy doing what she loved, and a year or so passed.

Margaret was shocked to learn that Mrs. Hotchner had found a new man only months after the funeral. By now, they had been together long enough to have a baby — and nobody knew for sure if they had even married! Mrs. Hotchner's invitation for a family gathering to meet the new baby came like a bolt out of nowhere. Maybe she was trying to reconnect with the family, but Margaret felt that her brother's memory had been betrayed. How could he be so quickly replaced?

She came anyway, along with aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins and even classmates from the good old college days. Mrs. Hotchner had borrowed a truckload of folding chairs which provided seating anywhere on the ground level of her house. Her new partner, a slightly unkempt man named Charles, stood around in the kitchen the whole time, telling anyone who would listen about his computer programming job. Margaret sat on the couch with some other ladies and observed the entire gathering warily.

Many of the guests flocked around Charles. He was ruggedly handsome with a chin-ful of stubble and a lazy crop of brown curls. He also carried a suave attitude about him and seemed far too friendly with some of the undergraduates. Margaret could see no comparison between this flirtatious man and her long-gone brother. She wondered what Mrs. Hotchner saw.

The baby, Sean, kept fussing in his mother's arms. She carried him back and forth between the kitchen and the living area, letting everybody in turn _ooh_ and _ah_ over his cute little face and his tiny hands. It was clear that Mrs. Hotchner had been drinking a little, but not so much that it got in the way of her interactions. Margaret noticed a lack of genuine emotion in the woman's eyes. She looked blank and still a little sad.

Nobody else seemed to notice.

Margaret had forgotten just how many people claimed to be a part of the family, but now every chair in the house was occupied. Every chair... except one.

Against the far wall of the living room, under a wide, multi-panelled window, Aaron Hotchner sat silently next to the only empty chair in the house. His hands were folded in his lap and his brown eyes scanned the faces that smiled and talked over each other all throughout the room. Aaron must be in high school by now. He used to be such a happy, energetic kid. Margaret was struck by the solemn mask his features had become.

One of Mrs. Hotchner's former classmates moved toward the empty chair, but Aaron quickly held out his hand over the seat. "It's taken," he said simply.

The lady rolled her eyes and moved back to the kitchen.

Margaret got up and neared the boy. "Hi, Aaron."

He looked up.

"How have you been?"

He shrugged.

Margaret missed the boy who would throw his arms around her neck and tell her all about the fish he caught on his trip with Dad. The boy who used to run wild in her parlor and dance whenever the Beatles came on over the radio. The happy boy with a father.

Margaret took a deep breath. "I hear you're starting school next week. Are you looking forward to that?"

Aaron peered up at her from underneath knit eyebrows. "Yes, ma'am," he said quietly.

Margaret nodded toward the man telling jokes in the kitchen. "So what do you think of your stepfather? He seems pretty nice."

Aaron glanced sideways at the empty chair. "Yes, he does, ma'am."

Margaret watched Aaron's eyes. She didn't know what to say to bring out his joyful personality. She didn't know what was wrong. "Aaron, who are you saving that chair for?"

Aaron cast her another brief glance before lowering his head. "My father," he whispered.

Margaret suddenly realized that her nephew was the only one in the house who had reserved a space for his father's memory. And now he was sitting alone with a memory, forgotten by the rest of the world.

Margaret reached out to pat the boy's shoulder. "I miss him too, honey."

Aaron nodded.

Just then, Mrs. Hotchner entered the living area with Sean and Charles. "There he is," said Mrs. Hotchner, pointing. "Come say hello to your grandmother, Aaron."

Aaron said hello, but he did not leave his seat. His maternal grandmother stood in the doorway, glaring at him. Margaret privately thought that Mrs. Hotchner was becoming more like her old lady — unapproachable and annoying.

Mrs. Hotchner came up to Aaron and leaned close. Margaret, standing a foot away, could hear everything.

"Smile, Aaron," his mother whispered. "If you keep looking so sour, people will start to wonder what's wrong with you."

Aaron stared at her blankly.

"Smile," she hissed. "Before somebody asks questions."

When Aaron remained as serious as before, his mother placed Sean in his arms. "Go upstairs and change the baby," she ordered quietly.

Aaron got up with a furtive look back at the empty chair. Margaret watched him carry his half-brother to the stairs. There he paused to look back.

His mother promptly sat in the chair Aaron had occupied only seconds ago. Almost immediately, Charles sat beside her in the chair reserved for Mr. Hotchner's memory. Aaron bit his lip and carried Sean upstairs. Margaret didn't see him anymore after that.

She turned to the couple, planning to tell them about the purpose of the empty chair. But they were whispering together and paid no attention.

"I thought you told him before..." muttered Charles.

"I did," whispered Mrs. Hotchner. "Don't worry. I'll talk to him later."

"Let me. I'll make him listen good."

"I know you will."

And then, almost obscenely, the couple leaned in and shared a quick kiss. Mrs. Hotchner let Charles put an arm around her, but even so close to him, she appeared quite sad deep inside.

Margaret wondered at this family and its mysteries. She didn't like the changes she was seeing, but she had no desire to pry and potentially put a wedge in the middle of whatever relationship still existed between her and her sister-in-law. Aaron would return to his normal self eventually, Margaret knew. Grief just took a greater toll on some people than others.

Margaret returned to her seat on the couch and sighed. Maybe sometime soon she would get back together with her in-laws and see how things were going. Maybe they would agree to another small gathering later this year, and hopefully by then recovery would be more evident.

Margaret tried to focus on the gossip and conversations circulating around the room, but she couldn't forget the betrayed look on Aaron's face as he headed upstairs.

It was the last time the Hotchners had a family gathering.


	3. Scene 3 -- Too Much Practice

_**This scene would have taken place shortly after the "Amphibian Autopsy" or "Our Turn At Bat" chapters in**_ **Curtain Call** _ **. Probably sometime before "Five Dollars and a Seed."**_

— _ **-**_

Somewhere to Haley's left, Aaron pinched a rusty orange maple leaf between his fingers and flipped it over. "Look at this one."

Haley brushed aside low-hanging branches and came to his side. She leaned close and frowned at the burnt-colored leaf in Aaron's hand. "Um, no. I don't think so."

She moved away and crouched to look at some leaves on a low-growing bush where she hoped Aaron wouldn't notice her attitude so much. He probably already knew she was in a bad mood today. She had failed her first audition in five years, and now she had to watch all her fellow drama club members prepare for a school play without her. It wasn't enough that Haley got to be Assistant Make-Up Artist; if anything, that was an added insult. Now she felt betrayed by the department that was like a second home to her. She rarely ever let Aaron see her so moody.

Now their biology class scoured the woods near the school in search of leaf samples for their project. The teacher and the rest of the class had gone deeper into the forest, far out of sight. Aaron and Haley lagged behind unenthusiastically. They had only agreed on three samples so far, and they needed seven more within a half hour. The tedious activity wasn't enough to take the sore feelings off Haley's mind.

Aaron obviously tried to be understanding. Giving up theater had been easy for him, he told her, because 1) he'd more than gotten what he wanted out of it, and 2) his acting skills would almost qualify for the most insipid soap opera ever to agonize television viewers. Acting would never be his passion, so he couldn't entirely relate to Haley on this matter. She wished he understood better, but that might never be the case.

Aaron tried in vain to cheer her up every chance he got. He told jokes and continually reminded her of her stellar performance as Mabel. He had no way of knowing the "Pirates of Penzance" was one of her least favorite personal performances, and the chance to meet him was the only good thing to come out of that play for her. Haley hated being grumpy at Aaron, but right now, she couldn't help it. Nothing could seem to snap her out of her cloudy mood.

"Do you like this one?" Aaron held out an aspen leaf with a little spot of yellow.

"Nice. We already have one."

"How about this?" A long, green leaf with a large chunk missing.

"No."

"Or this?" A scrap of notebook paper with a smiling, five-point leaf pencilled on it.

Haley almost smiled. Aaron's drawing looked ridiculous, and the idea of using it for a biology project would have made her laugh out loud on any other day. Today she just snorted through her nose and shook her head. "Very amusing. Come on, Aaron, I want to get this day over with."

Aaron didn't look hurt, but he did look a touch annoyed. He turned a page in the textbook he had lugged into the woods with them, but his eyes did not move to follow the print.

Haley sighed. "Aaron, I'm sorry I'm in such a bad mood, but I wish you knew how I felt."

"I can't," muttered Aaron. "Can't you just help with this play and then audition for the next one?"

"Of course I can, but that's beside the point. I _failed_ an audition! For the first time in ages! It's humiliating and I don't know how I'll come back from it."

Aaron frowned. "You'll be in another play. It's not a huge deal."

"It _is_ , Aaron! You don't get it."

"Okay, I'm sorry." Aaron shrugged. "I just don't like seeing you get so upset over something so—"

He caught himself and stood there staring as if into a headlight glare.

Haley arched her brow. "So... what?"

His face blanched slightly. "I didn't mean—"

"So trivial? Is that what you were going to say? So unimportant?" Haley tried to contain herself. "The theater is my life! I know it's not the end of the world, I know there's more important things on the planet. But it's important to me, and I don't like what happened!"

Aaron nodded, seemingly wishing to retract his statement. "I'm sorry, okay?"

Haley sighed. "Okay. So am I."

Aaron stood there looking very out of place. He clearly didn't know what to say.

Haley beckoned him and turned away. "Come on, let's find those leaves we need."

She walked ahead of him, feeling even worse than before. Listening to the soft sound of dead leaves and twigs munching under her feet, she tried to think of what she could possibly do to improve her situation.

She reached a short slope above a damp gully and came to the base of a tall tree that they had yet to collect samples from. A long branch hung low over the ravine, and Haley reached for the dangling leaves at the end. One leaf closer to being done with this miserable day.

Haley leaned too far and lost her balance when the soil shifted under her feet. Pebbles and leaves cascaded down the short slope, and Haley skidded with them. She reached out to catch herself on something — a passing vine or tree root, anything — but her hands flailed uselessly. Her foot caught on a mossy rock and from there she tumbled over into a tangled heap of fallen tree trunk and broken branches at the bottom of the ditch. Just as suddenly as she had slipped, Haley came to a rest and let out a very sharp "OW!"

Aaron, dropped his book, rushed to the top of the slope, and looked down, eyes wide. "Haley?"

She held her arm, looked at the blood on her fingers, and began hyperventilating. "I think I'm bleeding. Yes, I'm bleeding!"

"Hold on. I'm coming."

"Careful, there's loose soil!"

Aaron moved his feet sideways and steadied himself with his hands on the dirt as he descended the slope. More dirt and pebbles showered down beneath his feet, making Haley cringe. Pain shot through her arm and knee, and she couldn't be sure where the blood was coming from.

"Did you break anything?" Aaron called down as he neared her.

"I wouldn't know what that feels like, but it really does hurt!"

"There's usually a snap or crunch, and then this intense pressure. There's sharp pain all around the crack, and sometimes you can't feel your fingers anymore."

Haley caught her breath and looked away from him. She suddenly felt sick at his detailed description. "It's... well, it's not that bad. It can't be... broken."

She moaned as Aaron came to her side and helped her sit up. "That... really... hurts," she panted.

Aaron calmly took her arm, not appearing at all fazed. "It's not too bad. Just a scrape. Let me stop the bleeding."

He then pressed on her elbow with one hand and used the other to hold her wrist aloft.

Haley flinched. "Oh! Ow-ow-ow-ow—"

"Shh, I got you. Hold still so I can clean it."

He leaned close, studying the cut, and carefully picked out the dirt and splinters. Haley held her breath, wondering how deep the wound really was. The sight of bloody soil on Aaron's fingertips only made her stomach dive.

"Where's your water bottle?" asked Aaron.

"I dropped it... Over there, I think." Haley nodded back toward the branches.

Aaron picked up the small green canteen and unscrewed the top. He poured a slow, steady trickle of water over Haley's elbow and wiped it with his sleeve.

Her arm throbbed, but the pain wasn't so bad now that the shock had worn off. Haley watched quietly as Aaron expertly cleaned her cut. The bleeding seemed to have almost stopped completely.

"Keep your arm up," said Aaron. He then began untying his left shoe.

"What... what are you doing?"

Aaron yanked his shoe off. "Don't be grossed out, okay? Please?"

Haley's eyebrows went up.

Aaron slipped off his light blue cotton sock with a hole in the heel. "Trust me. Not only is cotton very absorbent, but sweat can actually benefit wound care."

 _Is he making this up?_ Haley made a face as Aaron wrapped her wound with his sock and knotted it around her elbow. If she didn't think about it, it didn't seem gross.

Instead she thought about the total ease with which Aaron had assessed and tended to her wound. He knew exactly what to do, and he didn't hesitate for an instant. Now, it hardly hurt anymore. Now, Haley felt silly and a little ashamed. Treating a nasty scrape like her's came far too naturally to Aaron, and she realized that her friend had had too much practice at home.

"Did you hurt anything else?" asked Aaron.

Haley wiped her nose. "Um, my knee got scraped a bit, but it's not bad. I can walk."

"We should head right back to the school. You can see the nurse, and I can tell Mr. Arnold what happened."

"It's alright," said Haley softly. "We can finish our project. I don't need to hold you back."

Aaron said nothing. Haley used the fallen tree trunk for support to get to her feet. Almost immediately, her knee caved and she seized it with a gasp. A spot of red had appeared on the knee of her jeans.

Aaron steadied her, and Haley straightened her leg. "Okay, that really hurts too," she muttered.

"Come on. We'll head back." Aaron picked up her canteen and his shoe. "Can you make it up this slope?"

As Haley scanned the slope where she had tumbled, she knew the short climb would hurt. A lot. But she also knew she had been acting like a baby long enough and she didn't need Aaron to carry her. He carried enough weight already.

She exhaled. "I can make it."

Aaron smiled faintly, waiting for her to go first. "Seems that biology class always draws out the drama in you," he said cautiously.

Haley let out a natural laugh and felt her face flush a little. "Yes, and you're always there to see it."

"Front row," he chuckled.

Haley was smiling again, though a couple tears of pain and chagrin stuck to her eyelashes. She scrambled up the slope on all fours. Her hands and knees stung the whole way, and by the top, everything hurt again.

Aaron must have seen her wince. "Sure you're okay?"

She nodded, biting back a cry of pain. Her scrapes were nothing. Standing next to Aaron, she didn't know the first thing about pain.

Haley put a hand to her eyes. "I'm a horrible person."

Aaron's hand rested on her shoulder. "No, you're not. Now be quiet and keep walking."

"I am so sorry, Aaron."

"Don't be. Lean on me."

As Haley gave in and let her friend support her, she didn't think she could ever complain about her life again.


	4. Scene 4 -- Haircut

_**Takes place somewhere around the middle of "Curtain Call." Warning: These next couple scenes are a little on the grim side, but some lighter scenes will come later. Hopefully this isn't riddled with typos — yes, I'm posting at 2 AM again! Hope it's readable.**_

— _ **-**_

More than any other morning, Aaron dreaded getting up. The only sleep he'd gotten all night came when he passed out from exhaustion every few hours. The rest of the time, talons of pain ripped into every muscle and joint. He writhed in the mess of rags on the concrete, unable to get comfortable even for a minute.

He couldn't remember ever seeing his mother so furious before. More than once last evening, Aaron truly feared for his life. He couldn't defend himself, he couldn't run; he could only scream, completely at the mercy of his mother's volatile whims. Briefly, he managed to reach for the blinds and catch a glimpse of the quiet street outside. He saw the windows light up over at a neighbor's house and hoped someone would come. For once, he didn't care about the police getting involved. All he thought about was surviving from one blow to the next.

But nobody came. The lights across the street soon went out. Aaron braced himself, and over the next several minutes, he almost got his left arm and both scapulas broken. Thankfully, nothing shattered besides the bulb in the living room lamp, plus about a half dozen bottles.

He didn't know how much longer he could live like this.

And getting up early in the morning was sheer agony. Aaron's head and limbs felt like burning lead as he dragged himself upstairs. He knew Mother would be waiting for him in the kitchen, and he knew her rage couldn't possibly be resolved yet. Not after an outburst like last night's.

What choice did he have? He needed to go to school, and he needed breakfast.

He walked like a cripple — hunched uncomfortably, leaning awkwardly, stiffening suddenly. By the time he hobbled into the kitchen. involuntary tears had broken free from Aaron's eyes, forced out by pain alone.

He stopped in the doorway and stared. Mother sat alone at the table with a bowl of milky cereal in front of her. Aaron quickly scanned the room for anything within her reach that might be used to hurt him. Ladel. Telephone. Saucepan. Loose towel rack. It wouldn't take more than a split-second offense or misstep to make him guilty. She would then grab the nearest object and with lightning ferocity beat him into a huddled, pleading ball in the corner. Aaron started to back out of the kitchen.

Mother looked up suddenly. "Good morning, Aaron."

Aaron stopped with one hand on the doorframe. He hadn't heard those words in over a year. He stiffly nodded his reply.

"Come sit down," said Mother. "I've prepared breakfast for you." With that, she slid the bowl across the tabletop in his direction. Aaron could see that the milk had made everything soggy, and he briefly wondered how long it had been sitting there soaking.

"No, thanks," he murmured, knowing not to fall for any of her tricks. This was a new one for sure. "I'll just get to school."

Mother rose to her feet, and Aaron moved closer to the doorframe at his side. His knuckles whitened from his grip on the wood.

Mother held out a hand. She looked hungover, but she managed to stay steady and advance with some clarity. "Whatever happened..." she said, shaking her head. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, Aaron. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Now he stared at his mother, unsure if she was teasing him somehow. He wanted to return to the basement, lock himself in.

Mother took his hand. "Well, sit down," she urged. "You need your breakfast."

Aaron didn't move, but his jaw became slack.

"If you hurry up, I can drive you to school. It'll save you having to walk." With that, she smiled at him.

Aaron struggled to breathe. "You're scaring me, Mom."

"Don't say that." Mother looked offended, and for a second she seemed about to hit him. Then the second passed, and she squeezed his hand warmly. "I just want what's best for you."

Aaron couldn't escape. With every muscle screaming at him to run, he reluctantly allowed himself to be guided to the table. Mother pulled out a chair and handed him a spoon. He sat down and stared at the cereal.

"Eat up," said Mother, hovering nearby.

 _What's in it?_ Aaron wanted to ask. His heart kicked against his chest.

Mother sat down across from him. "Aren't you hungry?"

He was starving. The spoon shook in his hand, and Aaron noticed how pale his skin had become. His forehead felt clammy but he didn't wipe it. He scooped a bite of cereal into his mouth, but he didn't chew it. The flakes just sat idly on his tongue, the milk dripped over his gums, and the taste was divine. As famished as he was, Aaron didn't know if it was even safe to swallow.

Soon his hunger got the better of him. Aaron began eating, all the while keeping his gaze down. He couldn't look at Mother's face now and see her abnormal smile.

"That's it," she said, as if encouraging a baby to swallow his oatmeal. "Need more?"

Aaron cleaned the bowl. Of course he needed more, but saying yes wasn't safe.

Mother took the bowl and dropped it in the sink. The abrupt clatter made Aaron jump.

He started to get up, but Mother turned back to him and he froze. "Stay there," she said. "Let me get a better look at you."

Aaron wrung his hands under the table as Mother approached. She lifted his chin with her fingers and looked into his face, then ran a hand slowly through his hair, studying it.

Mother sighed. "I can't have you go to school like this. When did you last have a decent haircut?"

"I... I cut it myself. Last month."

"That won't do. There's no need for you to do something like that if you've got your mother here to help. Stay put. I'll give you a neat trim."

She turned back to the counter and lifted a pair of scissors from a drawer.

Aaron felt dizzy. "Please don't. It's okay. I have to go to school."

"Not until you're ready." Mother grabbed a hand towel and draped it around his shoulders. All Aaron could see now was the shiny double blade of the scissors.

"Please..." he whispered. Mother wasn't listening. Aaron squeezed his eyes shut.

—- —- —-

Mrs. Hotchner filled a plastic cup under the tap and then trickled some water over Aaron's head. Her son gasped at the cold splash, and Mrs. Hotchner grabbed another towel to wipe the runaway droplets down his neck. She paused, seeing the bruises on the back of his neck. Then she covered the bruises with her towel, pressing it firmly against his skin until he was dry.

Mrs. Hotchner dropped the towel on the counter and looked back at Aaron's neck. The droplets were gone, but the marks remained. She felt an odd squeezing in her chest.

She slipped a lock of wet hair between two fingers and held it fast. Then she brought the scissors up to the top of Aaron's head. She waited.

"Stop shaking, Aaron."

"I can't."

The sound of her son's voice was like the cry of an injured bird. Mrs. Hotchner wanted to silence it. He sounded so hurt, and that in turn hurt her.

She thought about last night. Arguing with Charles again. Bottle after bottle. Aaron trying to go unnoticed. She caught him anyway— " _Your father would never have let this happen to us. But you—!"_

It was the first time she actually feared she might kill him.

The blades came together with a snap, and a lock of dark hair wafted down to Aaron's shoulder. Mrs. Hotchner wiped it off to the floor.

"You're very lucky to be alive," she said soothingly. "You're lucky I care so much."

"Yes, Mom."

She snipped another lock of hair, and the boy flinched.

"Trust me, Aaron," said Mrs. Hotchner. "I won't hurt you."

Aaron sat perfectly still, eyes trained forward. He sniffled, and Mrs. Hotchner handed him her hanky.

"We're starting over fresh," said Mrs. Hotchner. "I want to be your mother, one you can trust and love in return."

 _She must have hit him with everything in the room. He cowered beneath the window with his arms around his head and his knees in broken glass. Blood ran in thin streams down his back and arms where his shirt had been torn. He shattered her life, she would shatter his._

Mrs. Hotchner pinched the hair just above her son's neck. How could she possibly prevent another night like last night?

She didn't know _if_ she could. All she saw was this moment, where she once again held her son's life in her hands, and she chose to spare it. Aaron was the perfect release for all her anger and frustration, but she had to be careful. Killing him wouldn't bring back her husband.

More than anything, she wished the anger would go away and Aaron wouldn't suffer for what had happened. Every time she had an outburst, she looked back at her boy and wondered if she should apologize. _I don't know how to stop. Please understand._

As much to distract herself from her thoughts as to make the situation brighter, Mrs. Hotchner began humming an old tune called "All the Pretty Little Horses." It was a tune that she remembered her own mother singing to her, so many years ago, and the haunting melody often came up in her dreams. It reminded her of the strict old lady who could sing like an angel but made everything else in life as dull as her gray hair. Mrs. Hotchner wished she had had a funner mother. The least she could do now was make sure Aaron had a mother who put his best interests first.

Humming eerily as she worked, Mrs. Hotchner moved around Aaron, examining and trimming his hair from every angle. She saw that Aaron had tightly closed his eyes, and he seemed to be holding his breath.

Mrs. Hotchner closed the blades on another tuft of hair just half an inch from his temple. "Breathe, Aaron."

He opened his eyes to see the sharp edge of the scissor nearby. Mrs. Hotchner placed her hand on his head and felt for any uneven hairs. She had missed a lock in the back. Quickly she snipped it and caught it in her palm.

Feeling like she had to find some small way to hold onto the boy she desperately wanted to love, Mrs. Hotchner slipped the lock of dark hair into her breast pocket, over her heart. She would save it forever, just like she did his baby hair.

She was finished with the haircut, but she didn't tell Aaron. She just stood behind him, gazing at the back of his head, thinking. She _had_ to stop blaming this boy for her pain. She had to find a way out. But how? Right now, that sounded just fine, but already she craved a drink, and she knew she would forget her every resolution once she drank herself into oblivion. She tried to convince herself she could stop this cycle. Maybe this really was a fresh start. She would throw out all her bottles, finally get over her husband's death, and welcome Aaron home after school with comforting arms. They would be a happy family at last.

Mrs. Hotchner found her pocket mirror and held it open for Aaron. "What do you think, honey?"

She could glimpse Aaron's eyes in the mirror gazing back at himself with wide-eyed terror. His hair looked much shorter, much neater now. He gave a quick nod. "Thanks, Mom."

She wanted to keep him here all day, maybe talk through their differences and make up for whatever had happened between them. Maybe that would be best. But Aaron kept trying to stand up, eager to leave her alone in the house with only the baby for company.

 _He really does hate me. He'll never want to fix things with me._

The desire for a drink clenched Mrs. Hotchner's mind. She touched Aaron's hair again and brought her face close enough to kiss it, just like she did on his first day of school.

 _What have I become?_

Aaron looked up at the clock on the wall. "Can I go now? Please?"

Mrs. Hotchner pulled the towel off his shoulders. Anger was building anew. "Alright. Fine."

Aaron got up much too quickly and backed away from his mother.

She wiped her eyes. Then she reached across the counter and slapped a paper bag containing a peanut butter sandwich into Aaron's hands. "Now get out of here before I lose it again."

Not giving her a second to change her mind, Aaron scrambled from the kitchen and slammed the door behind him.

The scissors in Mrs. Hotchner's hand dropped limply to her side. Her head bowed, and she looked down at the clips of hair scattered on the linoleum.

She wanted her son back.

Why didn't he want his mother?


	5. Scene 5 -- Life Behind Bars

_**From a character point-of-view I haven't explored yet with this particular story. This scene may be a little difficult to follow and may require a couple readings to fully understand it. Hope it makes sense by the end at least.**_

— _ **-**_

 _I see the world through a set of bars that keeps me from going where I want to go._

 _I wait for lunchtime, the best time of any day._

 _The service is only so-so here._

 _I wish I would get more time to hang out in the yard._

 _I want lunch._

 _The guard ignores me, so I throw my empty bottle through the bars at her._

 _She says something loudly, angrily, and then walks out of sight._

 _I start hollering._

 _Then screaming._

 _I don't notice him at first, but here comes that tall, skinny guy with a pale shirt and dark hair._

 _He reaches into my cell and lifts me off my blanket._

 _I want lunch._

 _But at least I am free now. No more bars._

 _This guy shushes me and holds me to his shoulder._

 _He's rocking me._

 _Shhhhhhhhh._

 _I quiet down to hear his voice._

 _Tears and fluid from my nose drip onto his sleeve._

 _We're moving._

 _Over his shoulder, I watch the box with bars and the long, soft thing that people sit on glide away in the dimly lit room behind us._

 _The doorframe sweeps over our heads._

 _I want lunch._

 _Bright sunlight makes me blink._

 _The air moves over my face, and it smells like the flowery lotion Mommy rubs into my face after baths._

 _The guy carrying me sits down on the fresh-smelling green carpet next to the hard gray squares that people walk on in front of the house._

 _He opens a box and takes out several colorful round lumps._

 _He hands a blue one to me and leans over with a red one in his hand._

 _I watch him rub the red lump on the gray walkway, and lines appear._

 _A circle._

 _Two eyes and a mouth._

 _I lean over my short legs, which are stretched out in front of me, and sweep the blue lump onto the gray path._

 _The lump flies from my hand and rolls, but the guy at my side catches it._

 _He gives it back and holds my hand._

 _He guides my hand to make shapes on the ground, and my eyes widen in amazement._

 _Everywhere we rub the little chunk of blue, blue lines appear in familiar shapes._

 _Another face._

 _I let go and look at my hand. It is covered with blue dust that I can't rub off on my face._

 _The guy catches my hand again and wipes it with the bottom edge of his shirt._

 _He then goes back to drawing big, happy faces on the space where people walk._

 _I want lunch._

 _Then I hear a rumble, like thunder._

 _The big brownish creature with two spinning circles on each side zooms up to the house and stops._

 _The guy at my side lifts me up again and stands_

 _I see a man inside the now sleeping creature._

 _Daddy!_

 _The guy holding me shushes me again._

 _Next I'm being carried around the house to the wall made of huge sticks, which looks so much shorter when I'm up in somebody's arms._

 _The guy opens a part of the short wall and we move through._

 _I see the tiny house behind the house._

 _The tiny house is dark and crowded with long-handled tools and a machine that growls whenever it eats the grass._

 _The guy holding me crouches next to a huge brown sack under a wooden shelf and hugs me tightly in the dark._

 _I'm HUNGRY!_

 _Still, he shushes me. That's all he ever does._

 _So I shush up, and I listen._

 _Nothing happens for far too long._

 _I try to squirm free._

 _FOOD FOOD FOOD!_

 _The guy gives in and leaves the dark, cramped shelter._

 _He carries me to the back of the real house, and we enter through the door that looks like some kind of thin net in a frame._

 _Nobody else is around._

 _FOOOOOOOOOD!_

 _I think the guy's starting to listen._

 _He opens the tall white box around the corner and I feel the coldness escape through the open door._

 _He takes out a small jar and opens it._

 _Then he sits at the table with me in his lap and spoons cold, green glop into my mouth._

 _YUCK!_

 _I pull away and try to rub the slimy stuff off my face._

 _It gets all over the guy's shirt as I struggle._

 _I want the ORANGE glop!_

 _He doesn't give in this time but just keeps scooping yucky green stuff off my chin and back into my mouth._

 _I keep spitting it out._

 _When he doesn't stop, I decide I'm too hungry to be picky._

 _Fine, I'll swallow this nasty stuff— oh! Eww!_

 _Mmm. That wasn't so bad, but I dare not admit it._

 _Lunch takes longer than I'd hoped, but later I'm full and I don't care anymore._

 _Then I'm back in the guy's arms, riding high above the floor._

 _He washes me over the kitchen sink with one arm around my middle, holding my back to his chest, his free hand splashing water in my face._

 _I make as big a mess as I possibly can, making water drip down the counter, on his shirt, and to the floor._

 _On a towel on the floor, he changes me so that all my clothes are clean and dry._

 _By now I am so tired I can barely believe he's still standing._

 _We're back to the boxy cage on the floor in the next room._

 _The guy lowers me onto my blanket, and I look out through the bars at him._

 _Lastly he sticks that soft, squishy thing in my mouth, which I suck on contentedly as drowsiness takes over._

 _I'd really like him to sing to me, but this time he just goes out of sight, back into the room with all the yummy glop._

 _The service could be better, but I'm happy here._

 _Happy, safe, and full._

 _If only I didn't hear shouts and thuds in my dreams, life would be perfect._


	6. Scene 6 -- Fox's Den

Scene #5 — Fox's Den

 _ **Quick Note on the Previous Scene: I know the scene before, called "Life Behind Bars," was a little hard to follow. In case anybody found it too confusing, here's a quick outline of what happened: 1) Sean cries in his crib, 2) his mother goes upstairs and Aaron takes him outside, 3) the boys make chalk drawings on the sidewalk, 4) Charles drives up, so Aaron takes Sean to the backyard, where they hide in the toolshed for a while, 5) Sean cries because he's hungry, so Aaron carries him inside where he feeds, washes, and changes him, 6) Aaron puts Sean in his crib and gives him a pacifier before going to clean up the kitchen, and 7) Sean naps while Aaron gets beaten in the next room.**_

 _ **This next scene is a what-if scenario. If the situation in this scene had taken place, would it have prevented the events of**_ **Criminal Minds** _**Season 1 Episode 7 and some of the events of Season 5 Episode 8? Depending on the answer to this question, this scene could break canon a little.**_

— _ **-**_

Aaron flipped his exam sheet over so Haley couldn't see the big red D on the top of the page. He looked up and gave her a big, goofy smile to distract her. She beamed back at him.

He caught a glimpse of the A on her page right before she, too, flipped the sheet over. "Nevermind our grades," she whispered.

Aaron wished he could be so flippant about it. The worst part was, a note from the teacher told him to stay after class. As the noisy flock of students filed out of the room, Aaron tried to face away from them. He wished he couldn't be seen. Nobody else had to stay after.

Haley touched his hand. "I'll see you later."

He nodded. He didn't feel well.

Once everybody had finally left, Mr. Arnold crossed his arms and stared at the lone student among the crowd of desks and displaced chairs. The teacher had thick red hair and a mustache, and he looked tidy in his dark oxford shirt, slacks, and thick-framed glasses. But he didn't look happy.

"I'm surprised at you, Hotchner."

Aaron looked down at his exam. He wished he'd had time to study.

"You're slacking off in your classes," said Mr. Arnold, "and I think I know why."

Aaron didn't know whether or not to hope his teacher knew the truth. "So why aren't you sending me home with something for my parents to sign, like you would anybody else?"

Mr. Arnold came to the desk in front of Aaron and sat backwards on the chair with his wrists crossed on the backrest, facing him. "I don't think you really want me to do that, do you, Hotchner?"

Aaron sealed his lips and stared.

"Aaron. Tell me about this." Mr. Arnold leaned forward and gently pushed back Aaron's sleeve cuff to point out a burning red welt on the back of his wrist.

Without blinking or breaking a sweat, Aaron replied, "I tripped and scraped myself on a fence picket."

"Mmm." Mr. Arnold stood and slowly came around the chair. Two fingers pressed to the back of Aaron's neck, one of them pulling back his collar a bit. "And this one? Did you scrape your neck on the fence too?"

Aaron shivered. He hated the feeling of the man's fingers on his skin and felt very uncomfortable.

"Probably a tree branch," he said quietly. "Those low branches outside the front doors scratched me."

"I see." Mr. Arnold came around him and sat down again in front of him. He then fell into an uneasy silence.

He knew.

Some teachers knew, and they couldn't hide the fact that they knew. Some carried on as if nothing was out of the ordinary, others whispered words of sympathy when they passed Aaron by. A few apologized and some just shrugged. But they all had an excuse. Either it wasn't any of their business or they were afraid of retaliation. Most of them just told him to hang on and keep coming to class — everything would turn out fine.

The only adult at school who Aaron didn't entirely resent for his inaction was the english teacher. This man would occasionally curve Aaron's grade so he didn't have to bring home a C or even a B-, and once he forgave an overdue assignment that required a parent's signature. This man was caring and offered extra tutoring, but he was also remarkably timid. He had once seen Aaron's stepfather smoking in his car in front of the school, waiting to pick Aaron up, and the teacher did not wish to get involved in the affairs of such an intimidating, strongly built man. Charles rarely came to the school, but that one time had been enough.

" _If you ever need someone to talk to," whispered the small, wiry english teacher as he nervously fiddled with his spectacles, "I'm here."_

Aaron thanked him, but he never took him up on the offer. He didn't want more useless pity.

When it came to Mr. Arnold, Aaron had no idea what he would do or say. An uncomfortable few minutes had passed before the biology teacher spoke again. "You missed class the day I handed out the study guide. Why?"

 _Because I was bleeding from both nostrils and my right eye wouldn't open._

"Because I caught the flu."

Mr. Arnold leaned forward with a sad smile. "Are you a chronic liar, Aaron?"

That caught Aaron off-guard. He looked up and stared. "No, sir."

His teacher gave a short, dry chuckle. "I think you were playing hooky. It's this kind of trouble that makes my job, and that of your parents, so much harder. I can tell your parents are desperate to straighten you out. Why don't you listen to your parents and try harder at school?"

Aaron literally bit his tongue.

"Yours are the extra firm type, aren't they?"

Aaron could nod to that.

Mr. Arnold nodded right back. "Good. So am I. We need more of those."

Aaron couldn't hold his pencil steady, so he set it down. "Pardon?"

Mr. Arnold pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I said, the world could use more parents like yours. You're slacking off because you're such a lazy student, and it's important to have parents who try their hardest to keep you on track."

Aaron started shaking. That usually meant he was scared or angry, and right now he was very indignant. "With all due respect, sir, I disagree."

"How so? And don't tell me you're the rebellious type."

"I hope that _nobody_ has parents like mine."

Mr. Arnold looked at him long and hard. "Do they make you listen? Do they correct you when you're wrong?"

"Yes, but not only when I'm wrong. When I'm right too."

"Who are you to decide the difference?"

Aaron felt a rush of anger run through his head. "I know the difference."

Mr. Arnold sighed. "I have a son named Karl. Younger than you. He goes to school over in Maryland where his mother lives. Whenever he's with me, I am always amazed at how children can be so wrong, even when they're right. They think they know everything, but really they need all the correction they can get. I know, because I'm an excellent father."

"Mr. Arnold." Aaron's low voice shook a little. "Promise me you don't hurt your son."

"Would it be wrong if I did? Is that what you're saying, Aaron? You think you know more about parenting than all the adults around you?"

"I don't know how to parent. But I do know how my parents make me feel."

Mr. Arnold raised his chin, nodding him on. "Tell me about that."

Aaron took a deep breath. "At first it felt like I had some kind of deadly disease. This disease made them hurt me, because there was something _wrong_ with me. Soon I found out _I_ was the disease. I live like some kind of illness walking around unwelcome. They isolate me. They fight me. I'm no better than the germs in the dirt."

Mr. Arnold shook his head. "It can't be that bad."

Aaron refused to respond. Instead, he continued: "They make me feel worthless, deep inside. They make me feel like I would be better off dead. At their worst, they make me feel no better than an animal."

"You're exaggerating."

Aaron shook his head, trying not to show how angry he was. "Once, I came to dinner late, and they made me eat off the floor. Rice and peas. Burnt too. They sat above me at the table, absorbed in their world, and I picked tiny grains off the tile to eat. When they decided I'd had enough, they swept up and threw away the rest, forcing me to forage at the bottom of the waste bin. There was week-old rotting trash in there. I picked through it all for just a few bites, even though they beat me for making them waste food..."

Aaron paused, suddenly realizing how upset the memories made him. As he tried to gather his thoughts, a word came to him. "Trash. That's what they make me feel like. I feel thrown away and forgotten, and it makes me angry too. My biggest fear is harboring that anger too long and then lashing out at someone. I could really hurt them, the way they always hurt me."

"I don't believe you," said his teacher calmly. "You're making this up, aren't you, Aaron? You're trying to make me go easy on your grade."

"Why would I make this up?" Aaron almost yelled. "They make me miserable. I only find refuge in prayer, and in friendships. But always the pain is there. I can never stop thinking about that for a minute. If anybody touches me, it feels like an axe goes through my shoulder. And it's always there. Always. Reminding me I'm somebody else's piece of trash to throw away again and again."

Mr. Arnold stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You know, sometimes a parent needs to be forceful. You don't know how hard it can be to handle a kid."

Aaron felt exasperated. "Not so hard that the kid should get beaten within an inch of his life nearly every single day!"

Mr. Arnold shrugged. "Everybody's different. You're not a great student, Aaron, but maybe you're not such a bad kid. I don't know how someone could be harsh with _you_. But not all children are such easy learners." He eyed Aaron carefully. "You say you're getting beaten a lot? Maybe I should report this, but then I'd be a hypocrite. Besides, I don't really know what you're like at home, do I? Your parents are the ones who live with you; they know best."

For a few seconds, Aaron felt paralyzed. Then he came to life, enraged. "How can you say that?" he shouted, springing to his feet. "You want to see what they do to me? I'll show you!" Without warning, he pulled his threadbare gray shirt off over his head.

"Aaron—" Mr. Arnold held up a useless hand.

Aaron turned, knowing the myriad of painful marks would speak for themselves. He sat on his desk with his back to his teacher and buried his face in his hands. This was a peculiar time to feel ashamed. Suddenly, he felt entirely worthless and wanted to hide his tears lest somebody laugh at them.

He didn't hear anything at all until Mr. Arnold spoke softly behind him. "Aaron. Put your shirt on."

Aaron obeyed and then sank as low as possible into his chair. The man had seen Aaron's shame. Now he, too, would trample on what remained of Aaron's dignity. Aaron kept his face hidden and his head bowed.

Mr. Arnold was watching him. "Tell me again how your parents make you feel."

Aaron spoke in a deflated voice. "They make me feel like the worst person in the world. Sometimes I hate myself."

Mr. Arnold silently walked over to Aaron's desk and sat on the chair beside him. "Aaron, look at me."

People were always telling him what to do. He didn't have a choice. So, against his will, Aaron looked at his teacher. The man had tears in his eyes.

"Why are telling me all this? Showing me all this?" asked Mr. Arnold.

"Because, sir, you said that you treat your son like my parents treat me. I'm doing this for him."

"Have you ever met Karl?"

"No, sir."

"He's up to no good."

"Neither am I, sir, half the time. We're teenaged boys."

"What about the other half of the time?"

"I just try to survive." Aaron's eyes clenched shut against the tears.

"All those things you said..." Mr. Arnold tried to collect himself. "Feeling like an animal, feeling like trash. Is that true? You really feel that way?"

Aaron nodded.

"Do they... love you?"

"I don't know anymore. But the way they treat me... that is not love."

Aaron thought about Karl and wondered if he felt the same way. He prayed that Mr. Arnold would heed his words and change his parenting style. He wished that somebody would tell his own parents about the damage they caused.

"That's not love," Mr. Arnold repeated, very quietly. "Then what is it?"

Aaron thought for a minute. He had heard the term _abuse_ before and thought it applied to his situation. He wasn't sure if Mr. Arnold was even familiar with that concept. "It's hate," he said. "It's the worst sort of hate."

Mr. Arnold put a hand to his face. He looked paler than usual. "Do you suppose Karl thinks I hate him?"

"Yes, I do, sir."

Mr. Arnold got abruptly to his feet. "He's never told me this. I've never seen... Oh my word." His hand ran continuously over his face and his forehead glistened. "I never thought about how he felt."

Aaron's heart drummed hard. He hoped he was getting through.

Mr. Arnold reached out. "Give me your exam."

Aaron did, and his teacher balled up the sheet in both hands. "Forget your grade. We're done here." He returned to his desk and gathered up his books and shoulder bag.

Aaron watched him. "What are you going to do?"

"I am going to make things right with my son. As for you, I am going to call for police assistance."

"I appreciate that, but it would really be better if you didn't."

Mr. Arnold stopped and looked up.

"I want help, but if the police come, my little brother will suffer."

"Just what are you saying?"

"We've been threatened. I can't get outside help."

Mr. Arnold looked flustered. "Then I don't understand why you've told me all about your parents."

"I told you why. For Karl."

Mr. Arnold gave him a long, bemused stare. "Get out, Aaron. You're dismissed."

Aaron grabbed his book and headed for the door.

"And Aaron?"

He stopped.

"Thank you."

Aaron nodded and left the classroom. A heavy mixture of relief, regret, and shame hung over him. He wanted so much to get help. More than anything, he wanted his parents to change the way Mr. Arnold had after such a simple conversation. But he knew they never would. Their violence was not simply a method of especially harsh parenting — it was a mindset of tangled delusion and projected guilt. It would never go away.

Mr. Arnold never came back to school. From then on, a new biology teacher took over the class. Aaron never saw Mr. Arnold again, but he heard that he had moved back to Maryland to be closer to his family. He couldn't help thinking about Karl and wondering if he was faring any better now.

When she found out the new teacher wasn't just a sub, Haley leaned close to Aaron. "What in the world did you do in here with Mr. Arnold?"

Aaron sighed and looked away. "With any luck, saved a young boy's life."

Little did he know, he may have saved up to eight families. He had also saved himself the grim discovery of a box full of stolen wedding rings and the horrible agony that he would have felt staring down a lost unsub sometime in the future.

— _ **-**_

 _ **What do you think of this what-if scenario? Please leave a review if you know who Karl is, and to let me know what you thought!**_


	7. Scene 7 -- One Autumn Day

_**Following Aaron through a normal day in his life, as seen from multiple bystander points of view (six different POVs in all). Everybody has a different perspective on the protagonist, and on life in general. Long chapter, but one of my personal favorites. I really appreciate reviews!**_

— _ **\- — —-**_

A quiet, frantic voice spoke rapid Vietnamese in the back of his mind, every minute, every hour, every day. Clouding up his world with smoke never completely hushed the voice. In fact, smoking heavily brought Charles back to the war. He remembered the gun blasts, the smoke and fire, the shouts and cries. He was somehow addicted to the memories. They invigorated him, reminded him of his one-time purpose in life.

They also angered him. The more time Charles spent in the past, reviewing battles in his mind, the more he wanted to change history and fight back to win for himself. Charles had been considered a deserter when he returned to the States. Now he knew he should have never stopped fighting. He should have killed everybody in that whole jungle of a country.

That boy across the room was too sure of himself. He acted like _he_ could win any fight. Charles had to teach him. He had to show him who had the right to win. And he had to punish him, for surely this boy sat back and laughed along with the rest of his generation while Charles' comrades ran to their bloody deaths.

This fight was Charles' fight. Nobody could say he walked away from the challenge, not when he commanded the boy's attention and fought him into submission. _Who's the better fighter now? Who's laughing now?_

The boy was a rebel. He had long ago learned not to fight back, but still he tested Charles' patience by refusing to be defeated. That was unacceptable. He had to pay!

"Where were you when I was suffering?" Charles wanted to know. "Where were you when so many of us fought in a strange land?"

"I wasn't born yet!" didn't qualify as an answer. Charles wanted the truth. And he would get the truth, no matter how many battles it took, no matter how often the boy slipped out of consciousness in an outrageous attempt to forgo the fight.

"Stand up and fight like a man!" Charles roared.

The woman came between them. "Let him be. It's only seven in the morning, and I need him able to run an errand for me after school."

Charles held back another onslaught. The woman bent over the floor and yanked the boy up by his arm.

"Get moving, Aaron. Here's my grocery list, and here's the money you'll need. After school, go directly to the store and... Aaron! Listen to me!"

The boy took forever getting off the floor and focusing his attention. Charles believed they were wasting time. The woman should leave them alone and let him finish this important fight against ignorance. How could she expect the boy to complete an honest task for her if he couldn't even admit to standing by callously while thousands of men went to their deaths?

"I'm trusting you with more than you're worth," the woman went on. "If anything goes wrong, if you betray me, if you don't come back with everything on that list..." She made a very threatening gesture.

The boy nodded. He stood unsteadily and took the list and the money. His mother returned to the stoic baby in the high chair.

"We're not finished!" Charles snapped, fist shaking in the boy's face.

"You are for now," said the woman calmly as she scooped some liquidy food into the baby's mouth. "Lay off him, will you? He doesn't know any better. And don't forget, you have an appointment with the oncologist this afternoon."

Ignoring her, Charles knew would not rest until he had won every fight he attempted. He lit up a cigarette and breathed in the smell of wartime.

Through a distant fog, Charles remembered a colorful house in Boston with an overbearing mother and an absent father. Charlie never played with his sisters. He was busy playing King of the Hill with every boy on his street, and fighting them when he didn't get to be king. In every boy he beat up, he saw his own father, a man who walked out before Charlie learned to walk. Some said Charlie was a born fighter. He knew better: he was a born vindicator.

Charles never knew why he joined the war or why they were even fighting. He was simply drawn to any call of war, and he savored every chance to do battle with anyone and anything that came in his way. Charles released torrents of anger during the war, but, inexplicably, he came home angrier than ever. Nobody understood. That made everybody his enemy.

The boy finished his toast and overcooked egg and pulled a holey, shrunken green sweater that must have been his father's over his stained white T-shirt. Then he ran for the door.

Charles ran to intercept him.

The boy was faster, and he twisted the doorknob before his feet caught up with the rest of him. He threw his weight against the door and tumbled out into the coldest autumn day yet to hit this sour town. Charles caught the door behind him and lunged forward, but he stopped himself in the doorway. The world was now watching. The boy had made it past the barrier of privacy and made their war public.

Arms crossed over his chest and head down, he ran through an inch-thick carpet of snow and a wave of bitter wind. He didn't look back but just continued running as fast as possible in the opposite direction. Charles watched him go, and he remembered his own father running away from him, always running from a fight. He felt hated and abandoned again, again, again.

Charles slammed the door and started pacing. The fight had not left him, but it had exhausted him. This disease in his lungs threatened to pull him out of the running once and for all. Although he had sworn to fight, though he trained every day, he felt hopelessly like he had already lost.

—- —- —

The snow seemed to be falling extra early this year. Jessica Brooks scanned the pretty white coating on the school as she arrived with Haley.

"We should have gotten a snow day," sighed Jessica. "This would be the perfect day to stay at home and bake pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

"Are you kidding?" Haley spread her arms and gazed up at the deep white sky. "Nothing's better than dancing in the snow."

"Let's boycott school and have a snow day all to ourselves!"

But they were already on school grounds. Groups of teenagers, all warmly dressed and layered against the cold, rushed up the wide front steps to get inside. Those who lingered outside had declared snowball war. Jessica wanted to join the fight, but she knew Haley didn't like to get wet.

Too bad for Haley.

Jessica ran right into the middle of the skirmish, hollering nonsense and trading round, icy missiles with her instant foes. Her friends from science club ganged up on her, and soon she had snow in her mouth, in her coat, and in her hat. That didn't stop her for long.

"Jessie!" Haley yelled. "I'm going inside whether you're coming or not!"

"You do that, Hal." Jessica landed a blow using her sister's least favorite nickname. Before she knew it, Haley was her fully initiated opponent in the fight.

The bell soon rang and everybody scattered. Haley suddenly stopped peppering Jessica with snow and looked up at the shrubbery-lined street.

"There he is," she muttered.

"Who?" Jessica asked, though she already knew.

Haley brushed herself off and hurried over the snowbank next to the sidewalk to greet the lone student. Jessica groaned a little. Ever since Haley ran off with that uncoordinated fourth pirate, her attention to her younger sister went below deck. Jessica missed the days when they only _talked_ about meeting boys, and Haley trusted Jessica with her list of favorite traits. As it turned out, Aaron failed to match up with more than three quarters of the traits on Haley's list (no shaggy blond hair, no beautiful singing voice, etc.), but Haley didn't seem to care anymore. She saw something special in Aaron, something that Jessica and her friends could never see, no matter how hard they tried.

"Are you warm enough?" Jessica heard Haley ask. She looked back at the walkway leading to the front steps to watch her sister and her sister's friend. Aaron wore a thin, old, green cable knit sweater with no jacket. He rubbed his arms and blew on his hands. His face and ears were rosy from the wind.

"Actually I'm okay," he said. He smiled at her. "I'm warm now."

Jessica rolled her eyes. Oh. My. Word. _Can you say cheesy!_

"Come on, you two!" she called, waving her arm. "I'm not going to wait for you."

"That's fine. Go inside," said Haley, already bitten by the Annoying Sister Bug that often flew close to Aaron.

"Actually, I will wait," Jessica mumbled, arms crossed. She stood on the steps, waiting for the two lovebirds to hurry up the walkway. They were whispering together, but their faces were serious. With every step they took, all Jessica could think was _Gag. Gag. Gag._

At last they were inside, and now Jessica felt like a baked potato wearing her purple winter coat in the overheated building. She slipped her hat, mittens, and coat off as she ran down the hallway, calling, "We're late! I can't believe we're late!"

Usually that was Haley's warcry. She was the one who put more effort into school than anyone else did... until a distraction named Aaron came along.

Jessica stopped in front of the lockers around the corner. Then she stepped back and peered around the corner in the direction she'd just come.

Haley and Aaron stood halfway down the corridor, no longer walking. They faced each other now, but Aaron didn't meet Haley's eye. Jessica couldn't imagine why they looked so sad. She moved closer to the wall, not wishing to be seen. Was there more to her sister's love story than even Jessica knew about?

The warm air in the school had softened the red sting in Aaron's cheeks, but still one side of his face had an unnatural hue. It was like when Jessica tripped and caught herself on her hands, and her palms appeared splotchy red for awhile afterward. Broken blood vessels, maybe. Had Aaron fallen on his face? Made sense, given the icy sidewalks.

The idea that it was rude to watch someone secretly crossed Jessica's mind. More than that, she wanted to know what was going on. Why did Haley want to be with Aaron all the time if they always made each other sad?

Then the pair started moving again. Jessica pulled back, out of view, and hurried to her classroom. She hated coming in late and having everybody snicker at her. She sat in the back, which she never did, and put her elbows on her desk.

Her sister had a secret. It was a secret she shared only with Aaron, and Jessica felt excluded like a bee from a house. But it was a sad secret. Maybe somebody had died. Maybe Aaron had a disease. Could he be dying? Or had someone in his family died?

Jessica guessed at this secret all through math class. She even scribbled possibilities in between decimal equations. When lunch break came, she gathered her tray and sat down, uninvited, next to Haley, who naturally sat across from Aaron at an otherwise empty table.

Jessica leaned close. "You have to tell me your secret."

"What?" Haley cast her a solid glare.

Aaron acted like he wasn't listening in on the whispering sisters. He busied himself building a tower with tater tots and chicken strips and drawing Snoopy with ketchup on his tray.

"You and _Aaron_ ," Jessica whispered, hand to the side of her mouth. "I want to be in on your secret."

"If we have a secret," whispered Haley, "it had better stay that way. Got it?"

Jessica looked across the table at Aaron. He glanced back at her and nodded firmly.

Jessica let out an irritated sigh and threw up her hands. Usually Haley was the dramatic one, but this time she couldn't hold it all in. "Fine! It's not like I really care anyway. Keep to yourselves."

She was frustrated and she wanted her full-time sister back. But she also realized that maybe there were some things her thirteen-year-old self couldn't fully understand. She hated being left out of anything, but she earnestly tried to understand the hidden purpose of her exclusion. Just like she tried to understand why Haley could drive Daddy's truck while Jessica wasn't even allowed to touch the keys.

All in good time.

In the meantime, she resolved to try to like Aaron, even though he didn't dress smart, he stole all of her sister's attention, and his ketchup drawings looked extremely weird.

— —- —

Since he had shaved his head bald, Max tried to honor his children's wishes by styling his ample mustache to look like the head of a mop. His kids, two girls and two boys, thought it would only be fitting for their father the school janitor to wear his hair — what he had anyway — in solidarity with his favorite floor-cleaning tool. The mop under his nose tickled constantly.

Unlike other janitors he knew, Max saw his job as the ultimate career. He enjoyed every aspect of it: cleaning the halls where herds of youngsters marched on their way to get educated, organizing his tools precisely like make-belief medieval weapons in the narrow closet, and stopping to chat with his favorite students whenever they had a minute. His wife said he had Peter Pan Syndrome, but Max simply felt his fatherly instinct extending toward every youth he met. With six siblings of his own, Max had seen firsthand the hard work that went into being a father, and he grew up wanting to be just like his dad. He wanted to give every kid an idea of the dad they deserved.

Today, Max was glad to see the first snow of the year settling gently on the school grounds. During class time, he wandered the halls alone, mopping up slush and dirt. Some people said Max wasted his bulging muscles with menial tasks when he could have easily gone into championship wrestling. Max didn't mind. He only wanted to wrestle on the side, not for a career. He put all his strength and effort into wiping every puddle and crust of ice off the heavily trodden floor. He believed his strong build should be used to protect children, even if the enemy was simply a bone-breaking slippery spot.

Max had seen one skinny student head to class after the bell rang. He had seen that boy before, and he often wondered about him. If Max could win the prize for Cheerfulest Attitude in a Man Who Forsook a Career in Professional Wrestling to Mop Floors, this boy could win the prize for Saddest and Most Exhausted Permanent Expression on a Human Being.

The boy's name was Aaron. Max had heard a teacher yell his name once when he fell asleep in the hallway. Aaron always seemed tired. When he walked in through the front doors, his feet were dragging. When waited in the hall between classes, his head was sagging. But it wasn't just Aaron's fatigue that worried Max. The boy seemed deeply sad most of the time.

Max had his own kids. If any one of them presented themselves the way Aaron did, Max would sit down with them until they told him what was wrong. It didn't seem normal for a kid to walk around looking so worn-out and world-weary.

Trying not to appear stalker-ish, Max kept an eye out for Aaron as he went in and out of his classes that day. The boy would stare at his shoes until the bell rang, then walk silently among the bubbly crowd into a classroom. When the next bell rang, Aaron would shuffle out with the others, maybe meet up with a girl he clearly liked, talk briefly, and then walk quietly to the next class. There was no energy in his steps.

Max wanted to talk to Aaron, to see if something was wrong. Max was friends with several students, but he had never spoken to Aaron before. Aaron didn't have a very open personality. But would he listen to a school janitor?

In the short break between afternoon classes, Max wrung out his mop and walked closer to Aaron. "Pardon me, son," he said in his thick Southern accent.

Aaron looked up.

"I just wanted to ask you..." _What, exactly?_

As Max searched for the right words, the bell rang again. Aaron excused himself and walked away again. Max crossed his big arms. Someone should talk to that boy. Wasn't anybody else concerned about him?

Max didn't see Aaron again that day, but he couldn't help wondering what kind of help he needed, and how he might get it. The questions drove him crazy.

— —- —-

Donna had been working as a check-out girl at the local convenience store for the past two years of high school. She had seen this boy named Aaron come in to pick up his family's groceries about once every few weeks. He was kind of cute, but so were most of the boys who came through on grocery errands. Aaron ranked about 5 and a half on Donna's 10-point Boy Scale — nice to look at occasionally, but a little too pale, narrow-faced, and sickly to actually go out with. And too serious. Getting a smile out of Aaron was like getting both political parties to shake hands and settle down, for good. Besides, someone like Aaron would never be as cool as ( _sigh_ ) Joey from the New Kids on the Block, Donna's all-time favorite band.

Donna flipped her bushy ponytail back and watched Aaron select items off a list that was scribbled on a piece of notebook paper. Aaron's idea of fashion looked like something out of the 1950's catalogs Donna's mother still kept in the attic. His well-worn, cuffed jeans were boring and unstylish, and his forest green, clearly shrunken sweater had holes and knots of yarn coming undone. And his shoes. In a past life, perhaps some thirty years ago, they might have been a very fine pair of dress shoes. In this life, a generation later, they were sad, wounded old things held together with tape and patched with newspaper scraps.

Donna wondered if Aaron even _had_ a sense of fashion. Above all else, he never made any attempt to style his short, choppy hair. Maybe he was dirt poor. His appearance, though unfashionable, seemed desperately tidy, as if Aaron was fighting a losing battle to make himself presentable. There was a little bit of charm about that.

Aaron deposited an armful of cabbage, potatoes, canned soup broth, and packaged bread onto the checkout counter. He also added a jar of vegetable baby food and a quart of whole milk.

Donna snapped her gum and began checking out each item. "How are you today, Aaron?"

"So far, doing alright." Aaron shivered a little as he took a silk billfold from his pocket and began counting out cash. His fingertips were blue and his hair was a bit damp, probably from the frosty weather outside. Donna saw dark circles under his eyes and wondered what reason he had to lose sleep. Donna's reason was chatting on the phone with her girlfriends late at night. Aaron didn't seem the type to chat for hours on the phone. Why was _he_ so tired?

Donna began totalling the prices. "So... have you heard about the discount day at the roller rink? Next Tuesday?"

Aaron shook his head. "Haven't been skating in a long time."

Donna smiled and opened a bag for the groceries. "You should come. It will be fun!"

Aaron knitted his brow. "Don't know if I can make it. I think I'll be... busy."

Donna really had only one reason to be so insistent on inviting him. The more the merrier, was her philosophy, especially when "the more" mostly consisted of boys. Plus, Aaron seemed like he could use a little more fun in his life. "Come on, Aaron. The whole senior class will be there, plus several juniors like you. You'll be very welcomed."

Aaron helped her pack his groceries into a single plastic bag. "I'd love to, Donna. I just don't think I can make the time."

 _How can he possibly be too busy to hang out with friends?_

"Thanks anyway." Aaron placed a thin wad of bills on the counter.

Disappointed, Donna busied herself counting the money. She paused, realizing Aaron was a dollar short. When she pointed this out, Aaron searched his pockets.

"That's all the money my mother gave me for this trip," he said quietly.

Donna glanced sideways at the manager, who was stocking the liquor shelf behind the counter. She then reached under the counter for her purse, found a one-dollar bill, and placed it in the register. "It's covered," she whispered conspiratorially.

Aaron thanked her and took the bulging bag. Then he walked out the glass door that jingled as it opened. A blast of cold air curled around him into the store until the door closed and shut it out.

Donna sighed. She wished Joey McIntyre, her favorite singer, would come here for groceries. How much more exciting _that_ would be!

The manager turned to Donna as he opened another crate of bottles. "Was that Aaron Hotchner?"

"Yeah. Do you know him?"

The manager shook his head. "I expected his mother. She comes in here every week or so to stock up on hard liquor and cigarettes. It's a wonder she can still afford groceries."

Donna looked out the glass wall and saw Aaron walking away with head bowed and shoulders raised to protect against the cold. She didn't know why her manager told her about his mother, and she wondered what it meant.

"Whose milk is that?" The manager pointed to the quart sitting beside the register.

"Oh no." Donna grabbed the glass bottle. She bolted out of the store, into the cold, and called to the boy who had just reached the curb. "Aaron, wait! You forgot this."

Aaron's eyes went wide as he turned to her. He took the bottle from her outstretched hand, gazed at it for a second, and slipped it into his bag. Then, suddenly, he leaned forward and pulled Donna into a quick but meaningful hug. "Thank you _so_ much!" he whispered.

Donna was startled. So startled she no longer felt the cold. A hug was the last thing she would have expected from a guy like Aaron. There was nothing sensual or even romantic about his sudden gesture. It was merely a sign of extreme gratitude. She would have thought he had just gotten back a long-lost, beloved dog.

"You're... you're welcome," said Donna once Aaron released her from his embrace.

And just like that, Aaron turned around and went on his way.

 _No doubt about it,_ Donna thought as she headed back into the warm store. _There is something really weird about Aaron._ Better to stick to unattainable boys like the dreamy Joey McIntyre...

—- —- —

Officer Simon missed the days when he drove lights and sirens to an active robbery or showed up at an apartment to settle a dispute or arrived first on a crime scene. Since the accident — a head-on collision with a white van driven by half-asleep drunk — Officer Simon had been unable to return to the more active field work. When he wasn't filing cases at the precinct, he usually just made traffic stops at a minimally busy street corner like the one here among the restaurants and small businesses. All he had to do was sit in a cruiser and aim the traffic radar out the window. Nobody sped around here anyway.

He saw the boy standing beside the snow-dusted newspaper racks outside a bookstore. The boy held a full grocery bag, wore secondhand clothes, and looked cold and exhausted. He had the appearance of a teenager but not the build. If anything, he looked small for his age, undernourished. He also looked lost.

Giving himself the okay to leave the speed-scanning for a moment, Officer Simon climbed out of his car. Glancing warily around the sidewalk, he approached the shivering boy.

The boy looked up from the newspaper headlines and froze. He suddenly looked very scared. "Can I help you, Officer?"

"I just saw you hanging out in one spot for ten minutes. Are you lost, son?"

The boy shook his head wildly. "Oh no, sir. I'm waiting to cross the street."

Officer Simon smiled kindly, though he didn't quite buy it. "You've been waiting a long time."

The boy looked left and right as if searching for a way out. "It's a very busy street, sir."

"I can walk across with you, if you'd like." Officer Simon expected the boy to turn down the offer. Any ordinary teenager would.

"That would be fine, sir, if it gets me across quickly."

Now Officer Simon eyed the boy suspiciously. "Are you afraid of something?"

Another rapid shake of the head. "I should be getting home now. Real soon. I just can't find a long enough opening."

"I understand." It made sense on some level, but to the officer, the boy had looked more like he was delaying getting across the street for as long as he could.

Traffic from both directions came to a split-second stop on each side before flowing across or turning either way. The crosswalk could hardly be seen beneath the spinning wheels.

Officer Simon held out a hand to stop the through traffic. He gestured to the boy, and they passed the much-ignored stop sign together. The boy kept his eyes on the street.

"What have you been up to today?" asked Officer Simon.

"Went to school. Got groceries for my mom."

"Anything you want to tell me about? Any problems at school?"

"No sir."

Officer Simon thought for a second. They crossed the first traffic lane. "I've been hearing a lot about a drug problem near the school. You haven't been involved in that, have you?"

"No sir. What kinds of drugs?"

"Marijuana, cocaine. Kids sell and use them illegally. You would tell me if you saw any, right?"

"Right away, sir."

Officer Simon thought some more. "That store back there—" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder— "Sure is a popular place to be hit. Have you seen anything suspicious? Anybody hanging around, scouting it out?"

"No sir. And I wouldn't do that either."

"I see." Officer Simon scratched his head. He and the boy crossed the second lane of traffic. "How do you like school? You do well?"

"Some of the time. I'm trying harder."

The boy still seemed a bit frightened, but it didn't show so much now that he looked straight ahead.

"Did I startle you back there?" asked Officer Simon.

The boy nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir, you did."

Maybe that was all. Anybody would be shaken up if a big man in uniform suddenly came up behind them.

They reached the other side of the street. "Have a good rest of your day, kid, and stay warm," said Officer Simon. "And remember, you never have to be afraid to call us if there's ever a problem."

The boy looked pale. He swallowed. "Officer?"

"Yes?"

A long pause. The boy's lips remained parted, trembling a little, as he searched Simon's eyes and tried to collect his words. He made a faint sound like he was trying to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth.

"What is it, son?"

The boy shook his head. "Nothing. Just... Thank you, sir."

Then he turned and hurried up the street.

Officer Simon couldn't help wondering. Maybe his investigative skills had weakened since his role on the force had been downsized, but his intuition felt as strong as ever. Why did something seem so wrong about that boy?

— — —

Barbara could spend hours at a time clearing the ice and weeds in her front yard and untangling her beloved cold-weather pansies. Since she and her husband Dan had retired from working in retail and in the Navy, respectively, Barbara's primary quest in life was to exterminate the bad in her yard to make room for the good. That was how she viewed everything in life. There was no room for good to flourish if evil wasn't first conquered. That philosophy explained why they gave so much to the military.

She and Dan wanted to sell the house soon and spend the rest of their retirement in Mississippi, near their grandchildren. First, they had to tend to every detail of the house and ensure that it had tip-top market value.

In Barbara's opinion, one house on their street significantly brought down the neighborhood image and her own home's saleability value, and she could do nothing about it. It was the Hotchner home directly across the street. Since the death of Mr. Hotchner a couple years ago, the rest of the family had neglected the house's upkeep miserably.

Paint peeled away like the petals of flowers that didn't survive the oppressive garden forces. And like most of the summer flowers, the house had faded in color and grown old and brittle; but unlike Barbara's flowers, it got no treatment or repair. Similarly, the yard was allowed to grow untamed with natural grass and weeds choking out the blossoms that used to grow there in the summertime. Right now, dirty snow and ice clumped around the ugly yard, also ignored. Barbara didn't want realtors or potential buyers coming to her front door and then looking across the street at the unsightly view.

Worse than the outward appearance of the house, the inner turmoil sometimes got so loud it scared Barbara. She remembered the first time she woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of an adolescent boy screaming with pain. It wasn't long after Mr. Hotchner's death. Dressed only in her dotted pink gown and nightcap, Barbara rushed to the second-story window with Dan close behind her. They peered through the curtains, but the dark street outside was empty and still.

They waited, listening intently. The sound of glass breaking made Barbara gasp.

"Sounds like trouble across the street," wheezed Dan.

"Should we do something?" Barbara turned away from the window. She worried for her husband's heart, which probably couldn't take much more of this kind of stress before failing.

"We don't know what's happening," Dan pointed out.

They heard a loud, startling thump.

"Call the police," Barbara pleaded.

But then the sounds stopped altogether. They waited another five minutes, but they heard nothing more. Considering it could have been a simple accident they heard — someone falling down the stairs, for instance — and not wanting to create a fuss out of nothing, they eventually decided to go back to bed. They didn't hear another sound the rest of the night.

In the morning, Barbara went out to walk their aging beagle while Dan made some repairs in the carpentry upstairs. She saw Mrs. Hotchner's new partner, Charles, in front of his house, kneeling beside his car on the gravel and replacing a wheel. Barbara lingered on the sidewalk, reining in her restless dog with a leash.

"Good morning," she called out.

Charles just grunted.

Barbara wanted to walk away, but she kept pushing. "How is the family?"

Charles shrugged. "Why don't you ask them?"

"Is Mrs. Hotchner home? Or what about Aaron? I'd like to say hello."

"What business of yours are they?" Charles snapped.

Now Barbara really wanted to move along. "They're my neighbors. I'm concerned for them."

"Concerned?" Charles stood suddenly, rag and tire iron in hand. "What are you _concerned_ about?"

"Oh, it's probably nothing." Barbara shrugged and waved her hand like she really believed that. "I just couldn't help noticing some, well, rather, loud noises last night. I hope nobody hurt themselves."

Charles blanched, then his face turned scarlet. "Aren't you a nosy neighbor." He pointed his finger forcefully. "The only person who's going to get hurt is _you_ if you keep poking around. Go back to your cozy little home with your old man and stay out of our lives."

Barbara let out a gasp of indignation. Now she knew she couldn't back down. "Mrs. Hotchner and her son are my neighbors, and I won't stand by if you do anything bad to them. Now if you don't let me see them, I'm going straightaway to the police." She raised her chin defiantly as she spoke.

Charles looked furious, but Barbara relied on the hope that he wouldn't attack an old lady. "Are you threatening me, you old hag? Well, let me tell you something. I have a police scanner, and I listen to it all the time. I will know the minute you send the cops to us for whatever reason. It won't do you any good, and I _will_ know. And when I find out, I will make sure you never sell that crumby house of yours. I know people in real estate, and they listen to me, like you should. You'll be stuck on this street forever, watching each family in turn fall to pieces, and there won't be a darn thing you can do about it, besides wish you'd minded your own business."

Barbara was shaken. She felt angry at this brash, uncouth man treating his elders — and his family — like so much garbage. But she was also frightened. She didn't know how many of his threats carried any weight. Did he really own a police scanner? Did he have friends in real estate? Determined not to show any fear at his threat, Barbara threw in one last jab: "Then we'll stay here forever. You don't scare me, you disrespectful young fool!"

Charles looked about to lunge at her but caught himself just in time. He paused to think for a second, all the while staring angrily at Barbara. "Your husband has a weak heart," he said in a low, deadly tone. "You wouldn't want anything to happen that might... shut it down completely. Now would you?"

Barbara gasped. She let go of the dog leash, and the beagle bounded across the street to her home. Barbara's hands trembled over her mouth. "You monster... You wouldn't—!"

"And who's going to stop me? You?" The man laughed meanly. "I have a gun. I have several knives. I also have very large doses of some powerful drugs. And don't forget, I have a police scanner."

"If you come near my husband..." She didn't know how to finish the threat.

Charles smirked. "Leave the police out of our lives, and I'll stay out of yours. Deal?"

Barbara couldn't say another word. She was so upset she feared she might fall over. She looked away from Charles, looked up at the house. She couldn't see through any of the windows, and there was no way of knowing if the Hotchners were okay.

But Barbara was terrified for her husband. She believed Charles would make good on his threats, and she had no desire to endanger the man she loved more than anything else in the world.

She hurried home without another word. She never spoke to Charles again, and she only caught glimpses of the other family members from time to time. Each time she saw Aaron, he looked in worse shape than the last time. Sometimes both eyes were black, and often a pattern of bruises stood out on his thin face. Barbara had a son of her own, and now she had grandchildren. She would never let anyone hurt them. Why was Aaron any different? More than once, she picked up the phone to dial 9-1-1, but then she looked at Dan gradually wilting away in his armchair or in bed, and she tearfully replaced the receiver. Charles would be listening to the dispatch, and he would move too quickly for the elderly couple. He could run across the street in far less time than the police would take in arriving. The risk was too great.

It was very difficult, and so painful, lying in bed beside her sweetheart and listening to the repetitive _whack! whack! whack!_ of violence across the street. Sometimes Dan would turn to her and suggest they do something; Aaron could get hurt.

"I'm sure Aaron will be fine," Barbara would whisper back. "You need your rest."

By now Dan was too weak to argue. _There are other neighbors on this street,_ Barbara would tell herself. _Surely_ somebody _will step in._

But nobody did. It seemed as if Charles had the whole street under his stony hand. She never knew if Aaron really would be fine, but each time she saw him, she silently begged his forgiveness and longed to tell him why she didn't dare help.

His life for Dan's.

Over the last year, Dan's hearing faded almost to a memory. He would remain sleeping peacefully in the dead of night while Barbara lay awake, listening, alone with the agonizing noises and her own guilt. She tried to focus on the sound of Dan breathing, grateful for each breath he could still take. Instead, she always heard the boy's pleas and the stomach-churning thuds. She felt responsible for each one.

Once, Barbara oiled the old Volkswagen and drove to the police station. This way, she wasn't using the phone, and she hoped Charles couldn't find out. But Charles had followed her in his well-kept station wagon. He caught her in the parking lot and warned her not to "pull a stunt like this again." He also reminded her that Dan was left alone at home, and anything could happen to him, and he reiterated that he would hear everything they said. Barbara had hardly left her home since, not even to attend her seniors' club meetings where she used to play Monopoly with other ladies. House callers wondered if she had become a permanent shut-in.

And so this became Barbara's excruciating reality for nearly two years. Her life, and Dan's, quickly deteriorated. They rarely went out anymore. Attempts at selling the house had languished. Now, as she knelt in the garden to clear the frost from the purple and yellow pansies, she feared they might never leave this neighborhood. It was worse than Charles' initial threat. This way, she was doomed to watch endless pain unfold on her young neighbor, and all the while she wished she _had_ spoken up.

Here he came now. Aaron walked slowly up the street with a plastic grocery bag hugged to his chest. He wasn't properly dressed for the weather — no hat, jacket, or gloves — whereas Barbara was very well bundled up. She thought she could see ice crystals on his hair and eyelashes, or perhaps those were fallen snowflakes.

She thought about inviting him in, like she had always wanted to. She would get him nice and warm by the fire and feed him fresh biscuits and tea. She would then inspect his wounds, treat them, and apologize intently at his feet. Once she finally gained an undeserved forgiveness, she would reassure the poor boy and call the police, at last. If they acted fast enough, Charles couldn't possibly get at Dan.

Barbara stood. She would call to him, wave him over.

Aaron had reached his front yard.

Barbara stretched out a hand, as if she could somehow stop the boy from walking back to his tormentors. She opened her mouth to call out.

Aaron opened the front door.

Barbara was frozen in place, unable to stop him, unable to speak. Her mouth closed at the same time as the front door, and just like that, Aaron was gone. Vanished once again into the enemy's lair. Unaided. Unstopped. Why did he always come back?

And why didn't anybody ever stop him?


	8. Scene 8 -- Birth and Death

Mrs. Hotchner hated doing laundry. She hated having to find a neighbor who was willing to watch Sean, she hated looking for missing socks, and she hated going through Aaron's clothes. Most of the shirts he wore used to be his father's, but they had been shrunk down many times to almost Aaron's size. He didn't take good care of them. They were in terrible shape now, most torn, some stained with reddish-brown smears. Worst of all, they no longer smelled like her husband when Mrs. Hotchner held them to her face. Now they smelled of sweat and blood.

Normally she got through two bottles by the time she finished unloading the dryer. Today she had drunk only half a bottle, all that remained. She needed to buy more, and soon, but she was about six dollars short. The ceaseless presence of hard liquor in her life really put the Absolut in Vodka. It was her decisive anchor to guilt-free sanity and control. However, whenever she finished drinking, the heavy bottle always seemed to end up shattering over Aaron's back. Speaking of which, were those glass shards embedded in her husband's blue Cape Henry Lighthouse T-shirt? Aaron...!

She relied on him now to bring her the six dollars she needed, but she might not be able to wait that long. She was getting more and more irritated by the minute. All day she had felt antsy and uncomfortable. Now she feared she might burst from the intense discomfort that kept building in her heart.

Her bad mood wasn't just the side effect of her craving for a drink. She felt especially frustrated and angry today, just like she always did on this day when it came around every year.

Today was Aaron's birthday. She didn't even know which one.

Did the thought of Aaron's birth always make her feel so miserable? Mrs. Hotchner strained to remember a time when Aaron brought her more joy than sorrow. She could still faintly remember one beautiful moment when all her happy thoughts were with him.

—-

 _She sat cross-legged on the bed with an open book in front of her. She kept one hand on her round belly, massaging it gently. The baby must be sleeping now. Usually he spent the better part of his waking hours kickboxing with his mother's insides. He was a feisty one alright. Mrs. Hotchner was grateful for the brief respite._

 _She turned a page in the book. "How about Caden? It means 'fighter.'"_

 _Her husband smiled as he finished screwing in the last beam on the white crib. "Let's call him... Moses."_

" _Please tell me you're kidding."_

" _Joshua."_

 _Mrs. Hotchner shook her head. "How about Jack?"_

" _Noah."_

 _Mrs. Hotchner turned more pages. Somewhere in there, she knew she'd find the_ perfect _name. Her husband seemed to like the biblical names, so she found one that agreed with her and cut off his next suggestion: "No, wait, wait. I've got it. Gideon."_

 _Mr. Hotchner made a face. "Not a chance." He walked over to the bed and sat beside his wife._

 _But Mrs. Hotchner was sold. She pointed to the page, excited. "It's Hebrew for 'mighty warrior,' and it's perfect. Just think: Gideon Hotchner."_

" _No." Mr. Hotchner chuckled and leaned in to kiss his wife._

" _Yes." She kissed him back._

" _I still like Moses."_

 _Mrs. Hotchner let out a short laugh and rolled her eyes. "I can't say that name without seeing a big, white beard. But didn't Moses have a brother?"_

" _Aaron. The first priest of Israel."_

" _Aaron. That's much better."_

 _Mr. Hotchner wrapped her in his warm embrace and they kissed again. They couldn't wait for the addition of Aaron to their perfect little family. As if in agreement, baby Aaron gave his mother a spirited kick from the inside. She clutched her belly again._

 _But when Aaron did come along, Mrs. Hotchner's joy was gradually dampened with irrational feelings of jealousy. She didn't notice these feelings at first, but as the years went by, she realized her husband spent more time with their son than he did with her. The married couple used to do everything together. Now Mr. Hotchner took Aaron fishing or spent hours driving him around town in the eternal search for "something new." Now Mr. Hotchner took Aaron to the office for lunch, to D.C. to learn about government, and to Arlington to learn about the military. Mr. Hotchner taught Aaron about everything from filleting fish to saying "ma'am" and "sir" when addressing others. Mrs. Hotchner mostly just watched._

 _The two were as close as brothers, though Mr. Hotchner demanded respect and Aaron adoringly looked up to him. Mrs. Hotchner always had some task to finish at home, and she bid the boys goodbye whenever they adventured together. She wanted to come with them everywhere, but there was always some meal to cook or some load to wash. So she stayed home, burdened with the chores of a mother with hardly anybody to be a mother to._

 _Mrs. Hotchner was used to being by her husband's side day and night, watching over him obsessively ever since he got out of the Army. She used to even hang out with a magazine at his law firm all day. Throughout Aaron's childhood, she saw less and less of her husband, and sometimes she panicked, not knowing exactly where he was or if he was okay. She knew he was sometimes troubled with memories of the war, and the conflict had left him with some sort of heart condition. Mrs. Hotchner often told Aaron that his father wasn't invincible — he needed time to himself to rest. In reality, she just wanted Aaron out of the way long enough to spend some quality time with her man._

She still remembered the morning when Aaron came downstairs and immediately packed up all his books and papers.

 _Mrs. Hotchner stopped him. "You need to finish your homework before you go to school."_

 _Aaron smiled. "I did! Dad stayed up with me last night, and he helped me through the last page."_

" _Did he?" Mrs. Hotchner crossed her arms. "Good for him."_

 _What about staying up late to help her with the mortgage payments? If only she had gotten to him first. Regrettably, she and Aaron were engaged in a sort of tug-of-war for Mr. Hotchner's attention, and the poor overworked man didn't seem to notice. Neither did Aaron._

 _Mrs. Hotchner went back to darning the upholstery on the couch. "I made you a lunch. It's on the counter."_

 _Aaron finished stuffing his bag and retreated to the kitchen. "Thanks."_

" _Did you comb your hair? Brush your teeth?"_

" _Yes, Mom."_

" _Where's my kiss?"_

 _He returned and gave her a peck on the cheek. She set down her needle long enough to squeeze his hand. "Love you."_

 _Aaron hesitated a second before giving the obligatory "love you too" reply. He was barely a teenager, and apparently the attitude was kicking in early. He still went through all their daily sentimental rituals, but Mrs. Hotchner feared that someday soon he wouldn't so readily kiss his mother._

 _Aaron was about to leave the house when the phone rang. His mother picked it up._

" _Mrs. Hotchner? I'm an attorney at your husband's firm, and I'm afraid I have some very bad news. Your husband suffered a heart attack in his office this morning. He's on his way to the hospital right now, but sadly there's nothing they can do."_

 _Mrs. Hotchner's own heart might have stopped. The phone slipped right out of her hand and thunked on the linoleum, stretching the cord from the counter. Mrs. Hotchner put a hand to her chest and tried to breathe. Aaron set his bag down._

" _Mom? Mom!"_

 _The room became tipsy. Mrs. Hotchner reached for a handhold, and Aaron rushed to catch her. She fell against him, nearly knocking him over, but he grabbed the counter with one hand and put his other arm around her. Then he slowly knelt, lowering her to the ground with him._

" _Mom! What's wrong? Tell me!"_

 _She closed her eyes. Her husband was alive. Opened her eyes. Her husband was dead. Closed her eyes. Where was he? She clawed at her eyes. Wake up!_

 _She closed her eyes so tight she felt dizzy. The world swam away and she could clearly see that this was all a dream. What a terrible fright! She would wake up, and everything would be alright._

 _Someone touched her face, spoke rapidly to her. She grabbed the hand and held it close. She opened her eyes and saw a familiar, blurry face. She smiled faintly, and then said her husband's name. "You're here at last."_

 _Aaron's frown tightly creased the skin above his eyes. His mouth hung open, and he glanced at the dangling receiver, then back at his mother._

" _How I've missed you," she whispered._

— _-_

A clock ticked steadily above the couch. Mrs. Hotchner closed the basement door behind her and moved slowly to the kitchen. She didn't know how many days she had been in denial, so long ago, but she clearly remembered the shock of finally realizing nothing would ever bring her husband back. Aaron's face was similar, but he was not the same man. If not for Aaron, that man might still be here.

Mrs. Hotchner hated Aaron's birthday more than any other day of the year. This was the day she felt most miserable and most angry. She wished from sun-up to sun-down that she had done something to keep Aaron from being born. It was the only thing she could think of that might have spared her such grief now.

Mrs. Hotchner picked up a long, sharp knife and finished dicing carrots and potatoes on the kitchen counter. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and scraped the vegetables from the cutting board into the bubbling pot on the stove. Her husband always liked this soup, even though it was bland and simple.

She placed the board back on the counter, right beside her husband's work belt. Her hand kept hovering near the strap. It was the same black leather belt her husband used to wear to the law firm along with his pressed suit and red tie. It now lay coiled on the counter, always within reach. In this light, Mrs. Hotchner noticed specks of dried blood on the corner of the steel buckle. She regarded this with grim composure.

Although the idea scared her, she was consumed by this notion that her son's blood could somehow pay for all the damage caused by her husband's departure. It was a tragic reality, but it was the only one she knew. One day Aaron might understand why she was driven to handle him the way she did. The only way he could understand her pain now was to take it from her.

It didn't have to be this way. She could stop this cycle if only she could go back in time and take all her husband's attention for herself. Or if she could go back even further and keep Aaron from entering this cruel world in the first place. She wished she had prevented his birth not only to keep him from stealing her husband away, but also to keep him safe from her unforgiving wrath. As justified as she believed her actions were, she wished she could stop. But after a couple years of making Aaron suffer for what had happened, she seemed to have lost the ability to stop. And in all that time, she hadn't made herself feel any better.

Mrs. Hotchner still didn't have enough money for the drink she desperately needed. She needed Aaron to bring home his daily salary, and then she could numb these feelings. But she also knew she wouldn't be able to control herself, and the minute Aaron appeared, she might strangle him.

She would suffer without her drink, but she couldn't kill Aaron on this day. Not this time.

She looked out the window. _Aaron, whatever you do,_ please _do not come home today._

It all depended on him now.

—- —- —

When Aaron said goodbye to Haley for the day, he wanted to tell her, "I'm sixteen today."

She would overreact. She would probably make a fuss. It might be kind of fun to have somebody else know this secret, but ultimately it would be pointless.

Aaron's birthday was not a day to be happy. His birth had turned out to be such a negative thing, and he didn't see any point in celebrating. Today was just another day to get through.

So Aaron said goodbye to Haley and started his walk toward home. Once he was out of sight, he turned off the sidewalk and headed between buildings. Glancing behind him, Aaron hurried onto another street and kept walking in a direction very different than the one leading home.

All he wanted for his birthday was to not be afraid, just for a day. He didn't care if the beatings were twice as bad tomorrow; he had made up his mind _not_ to go home today.

Aaron wondered what things were like when he was born. Did his mother love him then? He was sure she had loved him at some point. Or was the time of his birth anything like Sean's, surrounded by negative stigma? Sean's birth marked the most painful time of Aaron's life, and it made him realize what Aaron meant to his mother.

Aaron remembered when his mother was pregnant with Sean. She became increasingly temperamental and kept sending Aaron to the store for strange things like pickles and mayonnaise. She didn't seem excited about the new baby, but she did seem to focus on its coming more than anything else.

— _-_

 _One day she sat reading a fashion magazine and slowly massaging her enlarged belly. Aaron wanted to stem foul moods before they happened, so he came up to his mother and asked, "Can I get you anything?"_

" _Quiet!" she snapped. Her hand tensed over her abdomen. "I don't want him to hear your voice."_

 _Aaron gave her a questioning look. She sighed and rolled back her head as if to show she was already tired of the conversation. "If he can't hear your father's voice, he shouldn't hear yours. You'll become some kind of replacement, and no one can replace the man I married."_

 _Aaron didn't fully understand, but he nodded. He didn't want to make her angry._

 _He lived the next few months in near total silence, at least when he was at home, and his natural impulse to suddenly burst out in conversation or share humorous comments gradually died away. Whenever he forgot and accidentally said something in front of his mother, she hit him. Aaron became more withdrawn and more unable to express himself or his feelings. He felt so alone with nobody to talk to._

 _Another day, Mother came back from a doctor check-up and called Aaron to guide her inside. She had been feeling woozy lately. As she leaned on his arm and staggered into the living room, she sighed. "It seems a shame the baby will have to see your face after he's born. Yours is a weak imitation of a worthier man."_

 _Aaron kept his lips sealed. Mother never used to talk about him this way. It suddenly seemed as if he could do nothing right, and everything was his fault._

 _Aaron was frustrated and confused during this time. He was becoming a teenager, he wasn't allowed to speak at home, his family had changed drastically, and he was being blamed for all of it. For a long period, he acted up more when he got the chance. While at home, he was an obedient, silent shadow. Anywhere else, and especially at school, he was a wild, uncaring and reckless youth. He tripped other students and called them names. He stole pencils and bits of chalk. He failed all his classes, and he didn't care what anybody thought of him._

 _A few times he went hanging with the lawless crowd at the school and once ended up in the park after curfew scribbling his feelings on a wooden bench. His stomach was in fidgets and he was doped up with nervous adrenaline, thinking he might someday be a career criminal. But when the rowdier kids started handing out pilfered joints and beer cans, Aaron realized he'd reached a line and he needed to back out before crossing it. At the risk of being shunned as cowardly and uncool, Aaron hurried home and faced himself in the bathroom mirror._

 _He wondered what he had become. He didn't understand why he was behaving this way or why he felt so strange. Was this normal for a teenager who lost one parent and no longer knew the other one?_

 _That didn't matter. He had to clean up his act, or his mother would lose hope in him completely. Besides, what would his father say if he saw what Aaron had become? He would say the two words that hurt more than any punishment, the words that made him feel deeply ashamed and repentant: "I'm disappointed."_

 _The very thought of disappointing his father like that, hurting him with his actions, brought Aaron to his senses at last. He had been acting selfishly, and as his father used to say, selfishness left no room for love. Aaron needed to live his life lovingly, putting others first, like his father did._

 _Aaron was going through these revelations right when that unexpected moment came and Charles had to drive his mother to the hospital. Aaron cleaned himself up, went to school, and apologized to everybody he had wronged in the past couple months. Most of them didn't think he was sincere, so Aaron knew he would have to let his actions speak from there on._

 _He came home to see his stepfather pacing in front of the couch where Mother sat feeding a brand-new baby with a bottle._

 _He paused. The baby was smaller than he imagined it would be. He ventured nearer and decided to test his limits. "What is his name?" he asked. It may have been the first time in several straight weeks that his mother heard him speak._

 _She didn't even look up. Her eyes were filled with tears. "Sean," she said._

 _Aaron felt so relieved to be able to talk again. "Mom, I want to tell you something."_

" _I can't stop you, can I."_

" _I just want you to know, I'm sorry for my behavior over the last few months. I've been acting badly and breaking rules, and I'm sorry."_

" _You can never change that. You're a bad seed."_

 _Her matter-of-fact statement startled Aaron. "Well... I'm going to try to do better."_

" _You can't, Aaron. You can't ever fix yourself."_

 _Aaron fell silent. Her words hurt him, but he wondered if perhaps she was too distracted by the baby to clearly engage him in discussion. He stepped back and faced Charles. Scrambling to change the subject, he asked, "So did you name Sean?"_

 _Charles grunted. "I didn't even want him. I told her to flush the useless thing away."_

 _Now Mother spoke up: "This baby is my second chance after everything went wrong with the first one."_

 _All of Aaron's frustrations were ready to explode, but he kept himself carefully composed. "What are you talking about? What is so wrong with me?"_

 _Mother looked up, glaring. "What_ isn't _wrong with you? You make me suffer every day. You disgrace me by still living." Sniffling, she looked down again at the innocent baby. "I wish you had been conceived after '73, Aaron."_

 _He paled. "Why?"_

 _She gave him a scornful gaze. "Because I could have killed you legally while you were still inside me."_

 _Aaron staggered backward a step or two. He needed to sit down. He could hardly believe what his mother was saying, but he knew that it hurt him straight through the heart. He felt devastated, wounded beyond repair. He leaned back on the wall to keep from collapsing._

" _Don't you wish you had never been born?" Mother asked, putting aside the bottle and lifting the baby to her shoulder. "I could have saved you from becoming the disappointment you are. You'll never amount to anything, and I can't bear to look at you."_

 _Aaron wiped his eyes. Tears were silly. Maybe his mother didn't mean it, or maybe he was just a hopeless case. Either way, there was next to nothing he could do about it._

" _The law says I could have killed you before you were born, so there's nothing wrong with us trying now." Mother turned to Charles. "Take care of him for me."_

 _Aaron was about to say something, but after that moment, he could no longer remember what._

 _Charles punched him right in the face, caught him as he started to topple, and punched him again. Heat and pressure welled up in Aaron's nose and around his eye while blood streamed down to his chin. He tried to struggle for a few seconds, but the man brutally beat him to the floor. Aaron raised his head and tried to get back up, but he was kicked in the face and chest until he lay still, curled up on his side._

 _He held his breath, daring himself not to move even by breathing. The man walked away after landing a final kick and spitting on the crumpled up boy. Aaron groaned, rolled onto his back, and gazed up at the fuzzy ceiling in total disbelief. Mother muttered something about the spots of blood on the carpet. Then she, too, got up and left the room with the infant wailing in her arms. Happy birthday, Sean._

 _They had both slapped Aaron a number of times before, but this was different. This was meaningless, merciless violence. This was agony like he'd never known before. What had he done to deserve this? Why did his parents loathe him?_

 _His anger and bewilderment at this injustice tempted him to go back to being a rebellious jerk. They didn't hurt him when he was breaking all the rules, and now that he had come to make things right, they wounded him cruelly. Why not give in to living angrily and recklessly if it didn't make any difference to his guardians?_

 _If he gave up that easily, his new parents would win. They would make him something he wasn't, something with so little value it didn't deserve to live. So Aaron resolved to make his birth worthwhile. So far that hadn't turned out especially well._

—-

Since today was laundry day, Mother had taken all of his warm shirts. Aaron wore his spare jeans and an olive green waffle knit henley that let in every draft. His bones ached from the cold air that buffeted him at every turn. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't know how he would make it through the night with nothing to eat and nothing to keep him warm. At least he wouldn't be sitting at home being told how worthless he was.

The sun sank behind the tops of buildings, and shadows drenched the thin street behind a series of small businesses. Aaron had been half-heartedly planning to find his father's old law firm to visit, but he forgot the way. Now he was too cold and hungry to think clearly.

He smelled the warm greasiness of Chinese food spilling out the back door of a restaurant kitchen. He walked slowly closer, entranced by the aroma, pained by its distance. He could hear the clatter of dishes, the splash of frying foods, and the foreign dialogue of the kitchen staff just inside the ajar door. He stopped beside an open dumpster and scanned the scene for any bystanders.

Right away, Aaron pressed his chest against the top edge of the green dumpster and bent forward with both arms stretched down into the dark container. In the evening shadows, he didn't have enough light to make out the contents of the metal tub, so he opened his hands and felt around through layers of cold, wet garbage. His left hand closed around the corner of a thin paperboard container with a squishy lump inside. After pulling his find out into the orangish lamplight, he opened the partially crushed oyster pail and sniffed the limp, slimy handful of rubbish inside. It smelled like rotting broccoli. Famished, Aaron nibbled the dark greens. The next second, he was scraping his tongue with his fingernails.

He reached again into the dumpster and felt for something dryer. His stomach twisted into knots as he felt every strange shape and texture. He thought of climbing into the dumpster so he could reach farther, but the idea unnerved him. It wasn't the thought of immersing himself in trash that disturbed him so much; instead another thought hung over him. Everything in this metal bin was unwanted and worthless. If his mother had her way, Aaron wondered if he would have ended up in a dumpster instead of a cradle. He wondered if she really wanted to kill him. Maybe she was right. If he had never been born, he wouldn't be spending his sixteenth birthday running from home and eating out of the trash.

"Hey!"

Aaron's head shot up. A petite woman wearing a simple black dress and a red apron stood in the doorway to the kitchen with hands on her hips. Aaron quickly backed away from the dumpster.

The woman advanced, almond-shaped eyes flashing, finger wagging. She yelled a rapid stream of mixed Chinese and English and gestured wildly to illustrate her annoyance.

Aaron raised his hands defensively. "Alright. I'm leaving."

"You're what? Who are you?"

"I'm just looking for food. But I'll go someplace else."

"Stop walking away!"

Aaron froze. His hands sunk into his pockets and he hung his head. Caught.

The woman reached for his arm. "Come back here. What are you doing in my trash?"

Aaron dragged himself back into the light of the half-open doorway, but he avoided eye contact. "Just looking for food, ma'am."

"You don't have a mama cooking dinner? You don't have food at home?"

Aaron just shook his head.

The woman's face softened. "You wait." Then she headed back into the kitchen.

Aaron waited, listening to the sound of her fast, demanding voice. His heart pounded and he breathed in the mouth-watering scents, but he knew he shouldn't expect anything to eat here. The woman was probably getting the manager, and soon he would be reported. Aaron started to move slowly away, sidestepping into the shadows.

The woman emerged through the back door again. "Come here," she called.

Aaron had no choice but to obey. He stood in front of the woman.

To his surprise, the woman held out a warm oyster pail. Aaron hesitated, wondering if this was a trap.

"Take it." The woman gave the container a small shake.

Aaron took it and opened the flap. Steam fountained out, carrying with it the clean smell of plain fried rice. His hands tightened on the container, afraid to let go.

"Can I really have it?" he whispered.

The woman gave a quick nod of the head and shrugged it off. "We had extra today. This one time."

Aaron didn't know how to thank her.

The woman glanced around slyly, then pulled an eggroll from her apron pocket. "And something special for you, to make your day happy."

Aaron was moved by the gift, and he held it close. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

The woman smiled for the flash of a second. Then she nodded her head away from the restaurant. "Now go. And get off the streets."

Aaron nodded, thanked her again, and walked swiftly down the block until he was out of sight. Then he settled on the front steps of a bank and an enjoyed the unexpected but satisfying birthday gift. He had not tasted something so wonderful in months.

By the time Aaron was on his way again, dusk had deeply overshadowed the streets. More streetlamps flickered on, more businesses closed, and more police sirens could be heard. Aaron wandered, fully alert, looking for shelter. The evening's chill had grown into a bone-shaking wave of coldness. Aaron couldn't feel his toes or fingers anymore, and he rubbed his arms constantly to relieve some of the numbing frigidity. He breathed on his hands, rubbed his arms, breathed on his hands, rubbed his arms. His teeth chattered and everything hurt.

He passed a homeless man on the sidewalk who sat clutching a brown-and-yellow checkered blanket around his shoulders. The man had tangled gray hair hanging in knots that reached his collar, and a fly hovered drunkenly around his unwashed beard. He smelled like a week-old unflushed toilet, and discolored grime coated his long hair, beard, and face. He smiled, showing yellow-to-black crooked teeth. Aaron tried not to cringe. He just wanted to hurry past unbothered.

"You look cold," said the man in a crusty voice that came out halfway between a squeak and a growl.

"I'm alright," lied Aaron. He dropped his hands to his sides, but he shivered so hard he had to start rubbing his arms again.

"Got a home?"

Aaron said nothing. He started walking again.

"Wait." The man staggered to his feet like an ungainly marionette, leaning heavily on the brick wall behind him. "It's a hard life on the streets," he said, shrugging the well-worn wool blanket from his shoulders. "You need all the warmth you can get." With that, he draped the blanket around Aaron's torso.

Aaron's icy fingers naturally pulled the blanket tighter. "I can't take this from you, sir..."

"Sir?" The man laughed, exhaling a nauseous odor of undigested cheese and beer. "Nobody's ever called me sir."

Aaron feared that the man wanted something from him in return. As cold as he was, he started unwrapping the ragged blanket. "You keep it, sir. I'll be fine."

The man shook his head and sat down again, picking his teeth all the way. He gave a dismissive wave with his hand. "You're so small you'd freeze in minutes, sonny. Now get."

Again, Aaron didn't know what to say. He suddenly felt guilty. He would have passed by this dirty, smelly man without a second glance if he could help it. But this man stopped him to give what he had, one forgotten soul to another. Aaron had nothing to give in return, so he simply reached out his hand to shake. The man hesitated, then shook it awkwardly.

"Thank you, sir," said Aaron.

The man smiled.

"Can I do anything for you?"

The man studied him. "Yeah. I wanna see you smile."

Aaron hadn't realized how frozen his facial muscles had become. Standing in the dim light of a nearby streetlamp, seeing snowflakes float lazily to the ground, Aaron saw the beauty of the moment. He was loved by the unloved, he was alive, full, and warmed. In destitution, he was blessed. He really had so much to be thankful for. Touched by the man's kindness, Aaron smiled warmly.

The man gave a soft laugh. "You're special, kid. Don't become like me, okay?"

Him, special? Aaron had spent the day wishing he had never been born.

"God loves you and looks out for you," said the man. "You know that?"

Aaron nodded. He smiled again.

The man relaxed against the wall with his arms around his knees. "Now let me get my sleep. Stay warm, okay?"

Aaron agreed. He moved on and soon found a doorway to an insurance office that had a slight awning. There he lay down on the short concrete steps, and the wool blanket warmly shielded him the whole night.

The next day, he found his way back home, unafraid. Mother's threats didn't hurt him now. She had the power to kill him, today, tomorrow, and every yesterday since before he was born, but Aaron knew that even if she did, he was not worthless. His value was not defined by anybody's opinion, but by the love of a mighty God who set him apart even in the womb. And even if he died tomorrow, Aaron was very glad to have been born sixteen years ago.

— — —-

 _ **Just a few quick, relevant facts to help you stay informed —**_

 _ **Does abortion decrease the number of child abuse cases? In 1973, the Roe v. Wade Supreme Court decision legalized abortion in the United States, which has been argued as a preventative solution to many child abuse situations. That year, there were about 167,000 child abuse cases. Just ten years later, the number of annual child abuse cases increased by**_ **500%** _ **to**_ **929,000 cases.** _**The number has rapidly grown and is currently estimated at about SIX MILLION children abused annually (3 million cases, most involving multiple children; an estimated total of 6 million individual children). This marks a 3492%**_ **(three thousand four hundred ninety-two percent)** _ **increase since 1973. Also worth noting, there have been approximately 56 million abortions since Roe v. Wade. Don't take it from me; you can look up these figures. Do these facts point to a widespread disregard for the value of children's lives? What do you think?**_

 _ **I realize this is a sensitive subject for many, and this is all I'm going to say about it. I do believe it's worth thinking about though, especially for anybody concerned with the welfare of our children and the quest for solutions. This issue is very intensely personal to me. I remember someone once saying that some of my siblings and I should have been aborted, and I remember how that made me feel. It is a painful thing to think of for any child. I encourage you to do your own research on these topics and come to your own informed conclusions. In the meantime, I'm just here to write fanfiction, and I hope you will come back for the next (probably) three scenes. I hope you'll find them as interesting as I do. And no worries, the last scene is quite light and fun.**_

 _ **I'd love to hear from my readers, on anything. Thank you for reading, and I'll be back soon! Next scene has an interesting connection to Season 1 of**_ **Criminal Minds,** _ **as well as to the ending of my story "Curtain Call."**_

 _ **-LTLS**_


	9. Scene 9 -- The Glimpse

_**Plot-wise, this may be the Number One scene I absolutely wish I had included in "Curtain Call." Ties into the end of my story and also ties into Criminal Minds' "LDSK."**_

—-

Why was he so angry today? It wasn't because of the violence at home. Charles hadn't beaten him this morning, even though Aaron expected him to. Inexplicably, that was what made Aaron so angry. He wished Charles _had_ beaten him rather than holding out a teasing glimpse of something he could never have again. He was angry at Charles for giving him false hope.

Aaron trudged past several historical homes downtown, some of which had been converted into small businesses. Some houses (were they colonial or victorian in style?) had signs dangling over their doorways to attract passersby to the dentist, the homemade jam sale, the palm reader, or the funeral home. Aaron passed by each one. His destination was further down the road, and he dreaded reaching it almost as much as he dreaded thinking back to this confusing morning.

Only about an hour ago, Aaron sat at the kitchen table going over polynomials and fractions. Charles sat down across from him, set down his toolbag, and started taunting him — y _our very existence is a waste of space and oxygen, and why don't you just step in front of a car?_ — the usual. Aaron stubbornly ignored the man until his stepfather reached across the table and placed one hand over his.

Aaron gasped in pain. Charles' smoldering cigarette was squeezed between two of his fingers, and the burning, ashy tip hissed against the back of Aaron's hand. Aaron leaned back, eyes widening, teeth clenching. He felt as if a live match was boring a hole right through his flesh. Even the rapid-fire thought of _endure, endure, endure_ did not make the sudden, sharp pain any easier to stomach.

With a startling amount of force, Aaron yanked his hand back and then snatched the cigarette from the man's fingers. Before Charles realized his prey had moved, Aaron pressed the cigarette into his half-empty glass of water until the black end crumbled apart. Charles made a furious grab for him, but Aaron predicted it. He moved back, grabbed up the cigarette again, and pitched it across the room. It fell through a crack barely an inch wide at the top of the trash can, which was mostly covered by a lid that rested slightly off-center.

Now Aaron knew he had guaranteed himself a heavy pounding. He might have to skip school again.

Charles had caught Aaron's wrist, but now he released it and leaned back. He chuckled.

Aaron just hunched over and poured the remains of his ashy water over his burn. He waited.

Charles crossed his arms. "You have some aim, twerp. I haven't seen accuracy like that since I was your age."

Aaron wrapped his hand in the bottom of his shirt.

"Don't believe me?" Charles rose to his feet.

Aaron flinched, and the man laughed again.

Charles opened his toolbag on the table. Aaron tried not to imagine what he might pull out — a cord, a wrench, a bicycle chain. They all hurt. He did not expect what appeared, however, and he gripped the sides of his chair with terror.

Charles held a sleek, black-and-silver revolver with a four-inch barrel.

His greasy finger ran down the smooth barrel, like one might stroke a favorite pet. "Smith & Wesson Model 15-2," he said. "Issued to me in the Air Force. Still shoots better than any other .38 I've handled."

Aaron just nodded to show he was listening and didn't want any trouble.

"You know what?" said Charles as he slowly rolled the gun from hand to hand. "I once got a medal for marksmanship. I shot a one-inch bullseye at thirty yards. Put everyone on the range to shame. Are you impressed?"

"Oh yes." How could he not be when the man looking for praise was holding a gun at the other end of the table? He assumed Charles was exaggerating (thirty yards, really?) but he didn't dare argue. Not when he was only five feet away from the armed braggart.

Charles then raised the gun and stared down the sights at Aaron. Aaron threw both hands over his face, palms out, and sank down in his chair.

Charles snorted. "You're killin' me, kid. Sit up. Don't you know the first rule of gun safety? Never point a gun at anybody."

Like he was doing now.

"Okay," Aaron stammered. "Got it."

"Good." Charles opened the cylinder and shook six bullets out into his hand. Then he spun the cylinder and clapped it back into place. "It's clear. Understand?"

Aaron dropped his hands to the table top. "Yes."

Charles smirked at him. "Did your daddy ever show you how to use a gun?"

Aaron looked down. "He was planning to, but he died before he got the chance."

"Isn't that a shame." Charles walked around the table so he was at Aaron's side. "Let me show you some basics. Surely you're not too dumb to grasp that much, are you?" He chuckled as if he really thought Aaron was too dumb to learn about handling a gun.

Aaron didn't know what to say. He wanted to learn, but he felt like this was a sick joke of Charles'.

"Well, stand up," ordered the man.

Aaron did, and Charles handed him the revolver. It had more weight than Aaron expected, and the handle felt warm from being in Charles' claw. Aaron's own hands were clammy. He switched the gun between them so he could wipe one hand at a time on his jeans.

"What do you think it is, a banana?" Charles gripped Aaron's hand and forcefully adjusted his fingers. "Hold it like this."

Aaron tried to get it right. He didn't want the strong hands to correct him again.

"Finger off the trigger," said Charles. "Keep your finger up here until you're ready to shoot."

Aaron felt oddly excited. He never would have expected either guardian to trust him with something like this, and it was something he had wanted to learn ever since he first saw his father cleaning his own shiny wood-handled revolver. These were the last circumstances he would have expected to learn this skill in.

"I'm gonna tell you the three things you have to remember when you're shooting," said Charles, "which you'll never in a million years actually get to do. Three things: front sights, trigger press, follow through. I do those every time, and I never miss."

Aaron nodded, concentrating.

"Where's your target?"

Aaron looked around the kitchen. His gaze fell on a clock beside the curtained window. He pointed.

Charles leaned close. "Alright. Pretend it's my face." He snickered to himself, as if at some private joke. "I know that's what you're thinking anyway. Pretend we're at war and you finally get the chance to shoot back. You'd never win, but pretend anyway."

It wasn't hard to picture Charles' face beyond the barrel as Aaron raised the gun and tried to hold it steady with both hands. He could see his front sight wobbling at the very tip of the barrel. He focused on it until it became central in his vision. The clock blurred in the background, and he could more easily picture Charles' face in its place.

"Steady." Charles again placed his hand over Aaron's, trying to hold his aim still. This time he was gentler. His hand felt warm and oddly comforting.

A chill paralyzed Aaron's spine.

"Are you aiming?" asked the man.

Aaron nodded, not trusting his voice anymore. He couldn't quite picture anybody's face up there now; it was just a clock. Trying not to choke on the smell of nicotine that always hung around his stepfather, Aaron focused on his front sights. _Front sights, trigger press, follow through,_ he recited in his mind.

It felt strange having a grown man stand so close to him and teach him so attentively. That hadn't happened since Father helped Aaron hold a fishing pole on the pier of their favorite lake. The feeling of the man's hand over his, guiding his tool, was too reminiscent. For a moment, Aaron felt an unexpected paternal connection to the man he despised.

"Deep breath," said Charles. "Now what's next?"

"Trigger press," whispered Aaron.

"Go ahead. You saw me clear it."

Aaron took a deep breath and pressed the trigger. He felt the mechanism shift into place and heard a soft _click_. And that was it. His finger relaxed.

Charles shook his head. "Come on, you dummy. What did you forget?"

"Uhh, follow through. What does that mean?"

"Hold the trigger back for about two seconds after you fire. It helps you maintain your aim. And it's really not that hard, I tell you. Even a dalmatian could do it."

Aaron kept breathing deeply and raised the gun again to aim.

"Hold it higher, steady..." Out of excitement or an apparent need to have some control, Charles placed a thick hand on Aaron's shoulder. Aaron tensed, then relaxed, feeling the hand's warm squeeze. He closed his eyes.

" _What are you using for bait, son?"_

" _I'm trying the grasshopper this time."_

" _I think I'll catch more with these minnows."_

" _We'll see, Dad."_

" _Need help casting your line?"_

" _Yes, sir."_

 _Two strong hands folded over Aaron's. The fishing line whirred and arced over the shining surface of the lake. Aaron watched his father's reflection wrinkle away in the spreading ripples until he had completely vanished._

"Try again, go through each step," said Charles somewhere to his left.

Aaron nodded, feeling the tickle of a single tear running down the right side of his face, thankfully out of Charles' view. He blinked and focused. _Front sights. Trigger press. Follow through._

He released the trigger after two seconds. Then he set the gun down on the table and stepped back.

"Finished?" Charles said. "You're just catching on!"

"I think I got it. Thanks."

Charles clapped him on the shoulder, same place he had left a bruise the night before. "What a waste of talent you are," said the man. "For a second I thought you really had this."

Aaron nodded. Then he turned away and walked silently to the front door.

"Not bad for an idiot," Charles called after him. "Next time we'll try the rifle, if I'm feeling charitable."

 _You won't be._

Aaron reached the door and opened it.

Charles threw in one last word. "Don't forget you owe me a cigarette. You hear me? Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Aaron just went outside and shut the door. His hand was burning again, so he put his mouth over the wound. Head down, he walked down the street and tried not to think about anything. He had left all his books and homework back there on the table, but there was no way he'd turn around for them.

He didn't go to school. He went downtown feeling very upset and angry. His father was supposed to teach him how to shoot a gun. His father never would. And now that filthy man — the man who influenced his mother to drink more, the man who sought to break most of Aaron's bones — he had allowed Aaron to believe for the briefest second that he still had a chance at having a father figure who cared. Why had Aaron given in to the closeness of the mentoring? Why had he let the man fool him into thinking of days gone by?

He had imagined his father back in that kitchen. But how could that be? Charles was not and would not ever be his father. Aaron dreaded the thought of the two men melding together in his mind. That was why he had to get out, and that was why he now felt so angry at Charles.

Aaron reached the end of the block and walked up to the tidy white church around the bend. He passed through an unlocked gate in the chainlink fence and headed across the smooth field of yellowing grass. Square blocks of stone lay perched in the ground every few feet, some surrounded by flowers. Aaron walked slowly through all the rows, glancing at names of mothers, children, siblings, fathers. He hadn't come here in a very long time, but he still remembered the way.

Father's grave rested about two yards from the shadow of a red-leaved maple tree. _Veteran, Son, Husband, Father. Dearly Loved_.

Aaron sat cross-legged in the grass. The occasional leaf circled down nearby and the chilly breeze whistled around him. Guarding against the cold, he hunched his shoulders and folded his hands in his lap. The cool wind — or emotions? — caused his nose to run.

Aaron looked up at the overcast sky. He sat there for a minute, breathing deeply and blinking against the wind. He had so much to say, he hardly knew where to start. So he simply asked, "How's the fishing up there?"

It seemed like a silly question now, but Aaron knew his father wouldn't mind. He sincerely hoped Father didn't have to see what his son went through on a daily basis, but he prayed that Father would be allowed this one brief moment to look back on Earth and hear his boy's lonely words. He didn't even know how that worked, or if it did, but he hoped he was heard anyway.

Now Aaron didn't know what else to say. He wanted to explain what happened this morning and how conflicted he felt. How he wanted so desperately to have his father around he was willing to let Charles teach him something important. And how guilty he felt at having even slightly associated Charles with his real father.

Aaron sat quietly for another minute. He was glad to be alone for once, alone with the good memories. Maybe he should focus on that rather than complaining about his awful situation.

Aaron took a penny from his pocket. It was marked with the year 1944, and he carried it with him everywhere. He had spent most of his childhood searching for a penny from that year, and he finally got one when Father found it in the pebbly creek bed.

Now he placed the penny on top of his father's headstone. He had heard of this being done on military gravestones right after the war as a sign of respect and remembrance. Different coins held different meanings. A penny meant he knew the deceased soldier. Aaron didn't think anyone knew Father better than he did. At very least, Father knew Aaron better than anyone else in the whole world could possibly know him.

And for old time's sake, Aaron placed his rusty fishing hook on the headstone next to the penny. He didn't have flowers to give, and he knew that these small items were far more significant. Father would understand.

He sat back again and folded his hands. Closed his eyes. "I miss you," he said.

Then he broke down and wept.


	10. Scene 10 -- What's Inside the Basket?

_**Alright, you can probably disregard whatever notes I've made about how many chapters I'm going to post. It turns out I have many, many more scenes to complete and share, so I won't even bother putting a limit on them. There will be scenes from Aaron's adolescence, early adulthood, and later adulthood. For a quick teaser, here are the sorts of things you can look forward to: different perspectives on scenes from "Curtain Call," sweet moments with Haley, Sean's graduation, Aaron's experiences at the FBI Academy and being mentored by David Rossi, reflections on the divorce, moments with other team members... to name a few. I hope to write all these scenes; I have too many ideas. I may jump back in forth in time, an adulthood story here, a childhood story there. I'm planning to keep this post open so I can continue adding scenes every so often throughout the semester. I currently have five college classes to juggle, but as long as I have a spare moment, I plan to whip up another chapter! Your favorites, follows, and ESPECIALLY reviews are highly appreciated! I'd love to know what you think as I continue exploring this character and practicing my writing.**_

 _ **For now, here's an uncommonly fun chapter, at least how I see it (and once you get past the beginning). Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **-LTLS**_

— _ **-**_

This morning, Mother just kept drinking. She said she was trying to drown out the bad feeling, but it never went away. By now she was spacey, unsteady, and confused.

While trying to scrounge for any breakfast scraps, Aaron quickly realized what a bad condition his mother was in. "Do you need to sit down?" he ventured to ask.

In response, Mother picked up an iron skillet and flung it at his head, swaying drunkenly as she tried to aim. Her move was too slow and predictable. Aaron ducked as the skillet crashed into a yellow ceramic flour jar. The nearly empty jar caved into several shards, just as Aaron's skull surely would have.

Mother released her hold on the pan and staggered backwards. "I'm gonna... I'll kill you... I will..."

She threw a ceramic cup at him. He didn't even bother ducking this time; her aim was off by two feet. He gazed at her bloodshot eyes and sunken, sallow face. He couldn't remember ever seeing her so weak, but now she appeared about to crumble within herself. She reached for her half-empty bottle, and Aaron rushed forward to grab it before it touched her lips.

From nowhere, Mother found the strength to smack him in the face. The blow wasn't very hard, nothing like usual. Aaron maintained his grip on the cold bottle.

"You're making yourself sick," he said, realizing he had the upper hand for once. "You've got to stop drinking."

"Leave me alone," Mother mumbled. "I just want to feel better."

She jerked the bottle upward, toward her face. Aaron didn't let it budge.

Suddenly she gripped her stomach and doubled over. "Oh, I feel terrible."

The bottle hit the countertop, and Mother grabbed Aaron's shoulder for support. "Take me... bathroom..."

She couldn't batter him if she was sick. Maybe this was a good thing. Aaron helped her to the bathroom, where she promptly dropped to her knees in front of the toilet. Aaron lifted the lid and brushed Mother's hair back from her face. Just in time. She clung to the seat, leaned over the bowl, and vomited for several minutes. Aaron stood back, holding his breath. The smell alone made _him_ want to throw up.

When Mother's heaves receded to deep breaths and spitting, Aaron folded several squares of toilet paper to give her. She dabbed at her lips with a shaking hand. Aaron felt oddly detached, not especially concerned for his sadistic mother, but at the same time hopeful that she would recognize his support and change her attitude toward him. He wished he could genuinely care about her being sick, he tried to care, but the feeling wasn't there.

Mother flushed the toilet and then climbed back up Aaron's arm. She leaned on him and moaned. "I feel like crap. Why doesn't somebody just shoot me?"

"Mom, you're sick. You need rest. Come with me."

He led her to the couch and helped her lie down, just as she would have helped him when he was sick, back when she actually cared.

Mother sucked in a sharp breath and then sighed slowly. She put the back of her hand over her eyes. "I can't take care of Sean today. Don't make me. Don't you dare..."

"I'll watch him today." Aaron spread a quilt over his mother's shaking body. "Please don't get up."

Then he considered his new task. He couldn't miss school today; he had skipped too many classes in the past to keep people from seeing horrible wounds on his face, or simply because his legs wouldn't hold. He had no choice but to find a way to watch Sean _and_ go to school.

Aaron found a plastic bucket in the basement and set it beside the couch. With one last look at his half-awake mother, he headed into the kitchen and poured the rest of her bottle down the sink. Then he located the large wicker bread basket on the counter beside the shattered flour jar. He shook out the plaid cloth from the basket and nibbled up every bread crumb he could find. Then he folded the cloth and placed it in the base of the rectangular basket.

Aaron carried Sean downstairs from his crib and laid him inside the basket. "You're going on a field trip today," he said.

Sean stared up at him with four fingers in his mouth and his legs curling up to his stomach. Aaron handed him a frog-shaped teether, and he placed an empty baby bottle and a couple of diapers in the side of the basket.

"Be good for me, please," said Aaron, before draping a sheet-thin white hand towel over the top of the basket, covering his brother from view. The blanket allowed some light and air through its thin knit, but now the container looked like a simple picnic basket.

With Sean hidden in this manner, Aaron lifted the basket by its woven handles and carried it to school, praying all the way that nobody would suspect a thing.

He needed to see Haley, but Jessica Brooks informed him that her sister was home with a cold.

Why did Haley have to be sick, and today of all days?

Aaron started to walk away, downcast, when Jessica stopped him with a question: "What's inside the basket?"

He looked back at her, mind scrambling for something to say. "Nothing of interest," was all he could manage.

"You would tell Haley, wouldn't you?"

Aaron shrugged. "Don't see why I would. She wouldn't be at all impressed."

Jessica gave him a look, but she let it go. The bell rang, and Aaron hurried to his first class. History. He felt a little excited, like he was responsible for some secret package that nobody else could open. Because if anybody did, they would surely call the bedridden enemy, and who knew what might happen then.

Sean was a quiet baby, used to being ignored. He never cried for attention and was used to entertaining himself for hours. Aaron had very little concern about setting the basket under his desk and trusting the baby to remain calm during the entire class. He figured if somebody saw it, and wasn't as nosy as Jessica, they would just think he had brought an extra large lunch. _That'll be the day._

Several minutes into class, Aaron started holding his pencil too loosely. He drew his hand back toward the very edge of the desk and let the pencil teeter between his fingers. In seconds, the pencil flipped over and landed on the floor by his feet.

The teacher, Diane Lanessa, met his eye. Aaron gave an apologetic smile, then bent down as she turned back to the chalkboard. He reached for the pencil with one hand, and with the other he quietly lifted a corner of the white blanket. Sean was teething contentedly on his green plastic toy, and he looked up at the crack of unfiltered light in the corner. Satisfied, Aaron dropped the blanket back into place and sat up. He continued writing notes as if all he had done was retrieve a dropped pencil.

Toward the end of class, Mrs. Lanessa began describing next week's assignment. "I want two pages on the War of 1812," she said. "And if I can't read your handwriting, I can't grade the paper. You can write about anything concerning the war, but it has to be two pages, alright?"

The boy with a perm at Aaron's left let out a profanity. Several others groaned in agreement.

Aaron gave his classmate a cold look. "Why don't you watch your mouth?"

The boy at his left made a bemused expression. He was known to have a dirty mouth, and nobody had ever objected before. "What's your problem?" he demanded.

"You never know if there might be people in the room who don't need to hear that kind of thing."

The kid gave a bark-like laugh. "Well, aren't you sensitive today!"

Other kids around him started teasing, but Mrs. Lanessa soon cut them off. "Hotchner's right," she said. "There is no need for that kind of language. You're all dismissed. Get working on your papers!"

Aaron felt triumphant but tried not to gloat. He knew how easily those kids could target him, and he was extra vulnerable today with his cargo to protect. He gathered up the basket and went down a narrow hallway that everybody avoided behind the gym. There he waited until he was certain the kids had moved on.

Next Aaron went to his locker in the otherwise empty hallway and set the basket at his feet so he could put his history book away. Stacey, a generally annoying sophomore with frizzy brown hair and the latest style in pink clothes, walked over and opened the locker to Aaron's right.

A minute later, she gasped. "What in the world, Hotchner! Are you starting a daycare service?"

Aaron looked down at the basket. Sean had pulled the blanket down to his chest with his fist, and now he peeked over the top edge.

"Oh," said Aaron, trying to hide his panic. "That's my brother."

"And what the heck is he doing here?"

Aaron slammed his locker door. "Show and tell." He tried to sound casual. Not showing any emotion, he knelt to pull the sheet back over the basket.

"For what class?" Stacey screeched. "Did you ever get past grade school? Hotchner?"

"Shhh," said Aaron, smiling slyly. "Don't ruin the surprise for anyone. I'll bet I have the most unusual show and tell presentation of any class."

"What? You— What?" Stacey's face was changing colors, and she seemed caught in cyclic confusion.

"What did you bring?" Aaron asked, hiding his smirk in a straight deadpan line. "I'm sure your class will be eager to see."

When Stacey got lost in stutters, Aaron picked up his cargo and carried it down the hall like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. A quick glance over his shoulder caught Stacey looking frantically through all her class schedules and assignment sheets. Aaron ran outside to share a quick laugh with his brother behind an oak tree.

In the cafeteria near the end of lunch break, Aaron spent his small handful of spare change on a half-pint carton of milk. Firmly holding the basket under one arm, he made his way slowly around the mostly abandoned tables, picking up any scraps of food he could find for his lunch. He was amazed at how many kids left their vegetables behind on their trays, but he couldn't complain to have something to eat. Even though it was processed. And soggy. And in some cases partially chewed.

Aaron sat at a table in the corner with his back to the few students who lingered with their lunches. Glancing every now and then over his shoulder, he poured the half-pint of milk into the baby bottle and screwed on the lid. By then, the janitor was doing his rounds in the cafeteria, and Aaron knew he had to clear out.

He went to the boy's bathroom and locked himself in the stall at the end. In the cramped space, he set the basket on the floor, lifted the baby out, and cradled him on his lap. Aaron held a finger to his lips to emphasize the need to be quiet, then brought the bottle of milk to Sean's mouth. Sean drank in near silence, save for the occasional sucking noises. Aaron wondered if he would ever tell his brother about these bizarre circumstances they lived through together.

Moments later, Aaron heard the outer restroom door open and a conversation move near the sinks. Two voices, low scheming tones.

"Well, I saw him carrying around a bread basket like some kind of sissy!"

"Why? For bread?"

"Who brings that much bread to school? I think he's hiding something. A dog, maybe."

"Whatever it is, I want to find out."

"You grab him, I'll grab the basket. Deal?"

"Let's do it."

Sean finished the bottle, so Aaron leaned down to drop it back into the basket. He held Sean to his shoulder for a minute, listening until the voices went away. He wasn't surprised, but he was a little worried. He had to be on guard against anyone who might attack him and his brother.

"Nobody's gonna touch you," he whispered.

Sean waved his arm and cooed. He tried to bounce in Aaron's arms, but Aaron shushed him, changed his diaper with some difficulty, and laid him him back in the basket. "Nap time," he whispered, before stretching the white blanket over the basket again.

Aaron came into math class a few minutes late and sat in the middle row. Since the teacher, Mrs. Gillansy, was droning on about finding that eternally missing _x_ , Aaron knew nobody would raise any questions about the basket he set under his desk.

Last time he checked, Sean was dozing off. He needed plenty of peace and quiet for his nap. Sean wasn't usually bothered by a lack of attention or by loud noises, but that changed when he was sleeping. He would still wake up crying if there was too much noise, usually if his brother was getting beaten especially hard nearby. If ever there was a baby who needed a calm atmosphere to sleep, it was Sean.

So Aaron was acutely aware of the whispered conversation going on between a boy and a girl in the row behind him. Those two often spent math class in quiet conversation, and Aaron often didn't mind. He knew how much he and Haley couldn't resist sharing their whispered commentary during biology.

But this time the hushed voices sounded louder than usual. This time they were grating. Aaron tapped his fingers on his desk and sighed.

Finally he turned around and hissed, "Shut up!"

The two students gave him somewhat mortified expressions. Aaron faced forward again and saw Mrs. Gillansy gazing in their direction. In fact, everybody in the room was staring at him.

Aaron shrugged. "We're okay," he said softly. "Sorry about that."

After that, every time the students behind him tried to resume their conversation, all Aaron had to do was give them a dirty look, and they fell silent.

He tried to focus on the equation on the board. Mrs. Gillansy's steady drone wasn't likely to disrupt Sean's slumber, so it didn't bother Aaron. He worked through the calculations and raised his hand.

Mrs. Gillansy pointed. "You know the answer, Hotchner?"

"57.4," whispered Aaron.

"What? I can't hear you."

Aaron cleared his throat and whispered only a little louder: "57.4."

Mrs. Gillansy frowned at him. She usually did. "That is correct, but please speak up. We are not babies here."

Students chuckled at that, and Aaron thought he would burst if he couldn't cover all of their mouths. His fists clenched on his desk, but he didn't move.

Mrs. Gillansy continued the lecture. She worked another equation and pointed to the first raised hand.

"83.9!" shouted the student in front of Aaron.

Aaron leaned forward. "Shhh!"

He only got a glare in reply.

The next student shouted the next answer. Aaron shushed her too.

Mrs. Gillansy put her hands on her hips. "Is something wrong, Hotchner?"

Aaron hated being the center of attention. He shook his head. "I have a headache," he said quietly. He really wanted to tell everybody it was naptime, and if they didn't let his brother sleep, he would never make it through the next class. And he had come so far!

Mrs. Gillansy rolled her eyes. "Class, try to be mindful of Hotchner's head. He must be thinking too hard about something, and I doubt it's math."

Somehow Aaron felt that by covering his ears he could block the sound of laughter from reaching Sean. _Don't. Wake. Up._

Aaron felt like he and Sean had won the Olympics by the time they emerged from class without further incident. His hands and forehead were slick with sweat, but he held tightly to the basket and walked down the hall as casually as possible.

He caught sight of two boys around the corner who started walking intentionally toward him. The scheming boys from the restroom, most likely. Aaron turned away and picked up a brisk pace. Just ahead, he saw Stacey, the annoying sophomore, storming through the crowd in his direction with a fiery expression. Sandwiched between two advancing forces of opposition, Aaron froze in place, pondering every option.

"Hotchner, you are in so much trouble!" Stacey yelled.

 _Good observation,_ he thought. He glanced back and saw the boys rapidly approaching. They were faster than Stacey. One boy with long blond hair and a paisley shirt grabbed Aaron from behind. The other, with a mohawk and leather jacket, came up beside Aaron and smirked.

Aaron could imagine the shout when they found out: _You brought a BABY to school?!_ Not only would every teacher come running, but the principal too, and the questions would be more than he could handle. One phonecall to his mother would make her furious, even though she had asked him to babysit. Regardless of her being sick, she would spend the rest of her time on the couch devising new ways to torture him for embarrassing her and risking a social worker investigation.

"What's up, guys?" asked Aaron, not at all fazed.

"Tell us what's in the basket," ordered the mohawk boy.

Stacey was pushing her way through several layers of the crowd, looking uptight with anger. Aaron held the basket closer to his chest and faced the boy at his side.

"Do you normally pick through everybody's lunch vessels?" he asked indignantly.

"Do you normally bring a banquet to school? I don't think so."

The blond boy holding Aaron's arms snickered. "I don't think he ever brings lunch, do you, Hotchner? I think he's smuggling something. Something _illegal_."

"Well, there's nothing to hide about bread," Aaron sighed. "You could do with being less pushy about it though."

"What do you mean?" Mohawk sneered.

"I'll show you what's inside," said Aaron, "if you have your friend let go of me and come beside you."

"Really?" The boy's expression fell. He had clearly expected more resistance, and he didn't look excited to see a load of bread.

The blond boy released Aaron and joined Mohawk. Aaron gripped a corner of the blanket and prepared to fold it back. His heart pounded.

"Hotchner!" Stacey's voice shrieked from behind several seniors. "I ought to sock you in the nose!"

She finally broke free from the crowd of high schoolers and marched straight for Aaron. Not moving his head, Aaron gripped the basket tightly to his side and stuck out his leg. Stacey tripped over his foot and fell into Mohawk's arms.

Aaron pulled back. "Boys, have you met Stacey? I think she's looking for a homecoming date."

Stacey looked startled as she realized what had happened and who she was facing. The boys looked just as startled. By the time they looked up, Aaron was halfway down the hall and didn't slow down until he had darted around the corner.

Breathing hard, Aaron snuck into the gym and collected himself underneath the bleachers. Sean had stirred, but he was still asleep. Grateful for his narrow escape, Aaron carried the basket out to the front hallway just as the last bell rang.

Aaron calmly joined the flood of students rushing for the door. He saw his history teacher, Mrs. Lanessa, watching from the sidelines with her arms crossed. Suddenly she stepped forward and stopped him before he made it to the door. "Aaron, I'm curious. What's inside the basket?"

Aaron searched the woman's eyes. A mass of teenagers swarmed by just behind him, all talking loudly. He couldn't be sure if any were listening. He leaned a little closer to his teacher. Then, dead-serious, he told her: "A baby."

She stared at him, trying to understand. Aaron stared back, eyes dancing with amusement. His thinly pressed lips curved upward as his teacher looked more and more bewildered.

Then Aaron started laughing, and Mrs. Lanessa hesitantly joined in. It sounded like a good joke, and Aaron savored the laugh for a minute. His teacher wiped her eyes while her student recovered from his mirth.

"I've never known you to be a comedian," she said.

"I'm full of surprises. See you next week, Mrs. Lanessa," Aaron said. Then he turned and walked out the door.

"No, really." The teacher held out a hand. "What's in the basket? Aaron?"

He pretended not to hear but just kept walking. With all the noisy conversations at every side, his feigned deafness came across quite believably. He knew she wouldn't follow him once he reached the street, so he just kept walking. He walked all the way home, silently congratulating himself and his brother for pulling off the charade all day.

Once he reached his neighborhood, he pulled back the blanket and smiled at the waking baby. "You know what?" said Aaron. "I feel just like my namesake from the Bible, and you behaved perfectly as a baby Moses. From the Exodus story, remember? We should do this again sometime."

He approached the front door and took a deep breath.

"Now let's keep that Egyptian princess from plucking you out of your basket."

So Aaron went inside, feeling just like a Hebrew slave in brutal captivity. He would be delivered someday, he was sure. Hopefully someday soon.


	11. Scene 11 -- Popcorn

**Please bear with me for this important Author's Note: First, I want to say thank-you to all my wonderful readers. You make this worth writing! I want to let you know that I published my two-part story (The Worst Fourth Pirate in History + Curtain Call) on the website for the fandom novel contest (see [slash] stories [slash] 26960). This story was published under the title "The Worst Fourth Pirate in History" with the penname SaltAndLight. Voting for the contest ends by October 21. If you feel like checking it out, maybe giving me your vote if you think I deserve it, I would appreciate that sooo much! I could use a few votes to catch up, honestly. If you want to share the story with friends too, that would be so great! :) Thanks again for your time and support.**

 **Enough on that. Here's the next chapter, which was a lot of fun to write. This scene is totally up for your interpretation. Am I referencing other characters? Am I setting up future ironies? Up to you! Depending on your interpretation, this scene might stray from canon somewhat.**

 **-LTLS**

— **-**

Aaron would have broken into song were he not concerned that all the birds would flee the nearby tree at the terrible sound of his voice. He kept his elation to himself. Soon he was skipping down the sidewalk like a delighted child, not caring, not worrying. So happy.

He couldn't remember the last time he felt like this, free to do as he pleased without expecting severe pain at the end of every day. It changed his attitude, his thoughts, his focus. Though he knew this respite would not last, he relished the sweet relief of this break.

They found out last week that Charles' job was holding a conference in Richmond. He would be meeting with other computer programmers to discuss the latest technology and propose new project ideas. Aaron didn't really understand Charles' job, and he didn't care in the slightest. But Mother had decided to take the opportunity to accompany Charles with Sean and spend the three conference days in the capitol as a family getaway. And since the latest definition of the family did not include Aaron, he would be left home alone for three beautiful, worry-free days.

Mother made a big fuss ensuring that Aaron wouldn't "betray her trust." Charles wanted to have him locked up during the entire trip, but Mother knew he would find a way out and get into trouble anyway. So they ended up ranting excessive lists of what Aaron could not do, what he could not eat from the fridge, and what needed to be done before their return. Once they finally drove away after leaving a bruise under his eye as a warning, Aaron whooped and hollered for joy. He couldn't believe this fortunate turn of events.

He waited until he had finished the day's classes and received his wages—his very own wages—at the end of the day before breaking the news to Haley. She acted like he had won a sweepstake to go on a Caribbean cruise with tropical tours and fancy dining.

When she finally calmed down and stopped bouncing on her heels with excitement, Aaron asked her out to the movies. He hoped Mother wouldn't try to collect his salary when she returned. Most likely she would forget.

They spent a long time in front of the cinema, scanning the movie titles and trying to recall what their friends had said about each. Movies took a long time getting released at their local cinema, and nobody knew exactly why. Summer blockbusters became autumn flicks and everybody in town was behind on the hype. They had read rave reviews for a movie called _First Blood,_ some action film about a war veteran with a bandana around his head, but for them, it was still yet to be released.

Haley had a secret-but-not-so-secret admiration of Harrison Ford ever since that first Star Wars movie came out, so they agreed to see last summer's _Raiders of the Lost Ark._ Aaron proudly paid the six dollars for both tickets.

Inside the theater was darker than Aaron remembered. The last movie he recalled seeing was the first _Superman_ with his dad about three years ago. It was easily his favorite movie, though he didn't remember much of anything that happened in it.

Public service announcements held the small audience in rapt attention. " _And that is why you should never do drugs!"_ Aaron and Haley slipped into the third row from the front, squeezing past a young, pudgy girl who sat alone at the end. The girl wore large purple-framed glasses and excited blond pigtails, and she stuffed her face with popcorn while staring at the screen without blinking. Aaron and Haley moved to the middle of the row and sat beside a college-aged woman with styled blond hair and super hip fashion. She gave them both a stern look and shook her head as if dismissing two delinquent youngsters.

"What was the last movie you saw?" whispered Aaron to his date.

"I don't remember," said Haley. "There were so many good ones this year. I think it was a Disney movie."

Aaron watched the company titles. "I hope this is good. I don't know anything about it."

"It doesn't matter. I'm just so happy you get a break, and that we can do this."

"So am I."

A man in his twenties with a mullet and leather jacket squeezed past them and sat on the other side of the blond woman. He gave her hand a quick kiss. "Hey, sorry I'm late, Erin."

Aaron's head snapped around and his brows went up. "Pardon?"

The man leaned forward to look at him over his girlfriend. "Nobody's talking to you, kid."

"My mistake." Aaron turned back to Haley and shrugged. She rolled her eyes.

They sat in silent excitement as the movie opened. Aaron almost convinced himself that he led a normal life and was used to this sort of excursion. However, the experience was too rare, the excitement too foreign for him to actually believe he was a typical kid. He felt as if he was watching a movie for the first time ever. Better yet, he felt as if he was a part of the adventure.

He and Haley managed to be quiet moviegoers for about five minutes.

"Run for your life!" cried Aaron near the beginning of the film. Indiana Jones frantically obeyed.

Haley giggled and reached for his hand. "Stay with me, Aaron."

"This is so exciting," Aaron murmured. "I've never seen anything like it. Oh my word! Is that a real snake?"

The Erin at his side gave him a stern look.

They tried to keep quiet, but they had too many comments to share. Aaron would whisper something in Haley's ear every few minutes, she would laugh, and a short discussion might ensue. Aaron hardly considered theater etiquette. This was such a rare experience, he knew he couldn't waste it in silence. He had to make the most of every second here with his friend, all the while fearing in the back of his mind that it may be his last chance to do so.

After a little while, a fight broke out between Dr. Jones and a burly Nazi mechanic. Aaron leaned forward, eyes glued to their every move. In his peripheral, he saw Haley shifting uncomfortably.

"Do they _have_ to keep fighting?" she said. "This is too violent."

"They'll be fine," said Aaron, his voice tight. "It's not that bad; he can take a lot more of this before he's out, I'm sure. Look how he fights back. I love this!"

"It makes me nervous."

"Get up and fight! C'mon, sock him in the jaw!" Aaron started waving his fist as he yelled at the screen. "Fight back!"

Haley gave him an uninterrupted moment to egg on the hero. Soon he saw the airplane's propeller spinning close behind the Nazi fighter, and he suddenly realized what was about to happen.

"Don't look," he warned Haley. "This is gonna get nasty."

Haley covered her eyes. To Aaron's relief, no gore was shown apart from the splash of blood on the airplane's side.

Haley looked up again. "What did I miss? Where did the boxer dude go?"

"Do you really wanna know?"

"I guess not."

Erin leaned over. "Would you two be quiet? I'm trying to watch a movie, and I have half a mind to have you both thrown out of here—for good!"

Aaron apologized, then turned back to Haley.

She looked at him and tried to hold back a smile. " _Can_ we be quiet?" she asked.

Aaron grinned. "Not a chance. Why don't we move a little further back where we'll be less likely to disturb people."

Haley agreed, so they got up, moved away from Erin and her boyfriend, and squeezed past the bespectacled girl at the end of the row, who still gazing enraptured at the big screen.

Aaron and Haley walked up a few steps at the side. They moved past two young girls, one blond, the other with raven black hair, who giggled and whispered about "that dashing Harrison guy." "Wouldn't it be something to really meet him, Em?" whispered the blond. Aaron rolled his eyes as he passed. Girls.

He sat with Haley in a nearly empty row. Without explanation, a brown-haired boy in a black sweater moved over several seats so that he was right beside Haley. He wore an odd, sneering half-grin as he held out his concession bucket. "Popcorn?"

Aaron frowned. "No."

The boy offered some to Haley. "Would you like some?" His voice had a faint Boston lilt to it.

"Oh, yes. Thank you." Haley took some popcorn while continuing to watch the vehicle chase in the movie.

The boy grinned slyly. "Look at that action, huh. Seems like everybody wants to be a reaper of death."

Aaron felt annoyed by the boy. He couldn't put his finger on why.

In the movie, a Nazi soldier climbed into the cab of the truck, attacked Indiana Jones, and pushed him out through the windshield. As Dr. Jones nearly slipped off the hood of the truck to his death, the boy at Haley's right took a sharp breath in. "That... was awesome," he said in a low tone. "I hope he falls off the cliff now."

Aaron cast the boy a glare. He did not like this boy, and he did not like how close he was to Haley. The boy continued to grin eerily as if everything in life was a big joke. He made Aaron very uneasy.

Aaron took Haley's hand. "Let's move again," he whispered.

Haley was just getting into the movie. "Why?"

"Cuz I don't like how that boy keeps looking at you," Aaron whispered.

Haley shrugged, but she stood and followed him to the end of the row.

"Leaving already?" drawled the boy. He shook his head and chuckled as another car careened off the edge of the cliff.

Aaron and Haley were getting closer and closer to the back row of seats. They moved past two boys who were tied up in a quiet, heated argument. One boy was very young, and he had thick-rimmed glasses and shaggy hair. He was arguing about the implausibility of the scene in front of them. The boy at his side, an older, darker-skinned youth, flapped his hand open and shut like a talking puppet, imitating his young friend.

"Haven't you ever seen a movie before?" the boy interrupted his bespectacled companion. "Just shut up and enjoy the action."

"I'm trying to," said the younger boy. "But you know what I'd rather be watching? _Star Trek_."

His friend groaned, and Aaron and Haley hurried by. They reached the row of seats in the very back and sat down together, alone at last.

"Sorry we've had to move around so much," said Aaron.

"It was fun," Haley reassured him. She leaned a little closer. "I am so glad we came."

Aaron put his arm around her shoulders and watched as the woman in the movie tended to the hero's wounds in the hold of a ship. Aaron realized how lucky he was to have someone like Haley who treated his wounds with love and patience.

He felt uncommonly peaceful. He leaned back in his chair, and his exhausted body became relaxed. He didn't notice how his head lolled, or how his eyes welcomed the heavy draw of sleepiness. He knew he would have to fight for his life again soon, but for now, all he wanted was to rest safe in the company of someone he trusted.

Haley leaned over to give Aaron a quick kiss on the cheek. By then he had already fallen asleep.

—-

 _ **Note: I do not own Indiana Jones or any of his movies. As for Criminal Minds... well, okay, I still don't own that either.**_

 _ **Now, even though I referenced Season 9's "Route 66" episode here, and it was pretty fun doing so, I would prefer to pretend that Beth never happened. In the universe of my fics, she never existed, past, present, or future. Anyone else's thoughts?**_

 _ **Don't forget to check out my story on inkitt. Thank you for reading!**_

 _ **-LTLS**_


	12. Scene 12 -- The Voice of Tears

_**Hello and sorry for my long absence! There are many more scenes to come, I assure you! I haven't forgotten you or Aaron. Here is a short, very solemn scene. After this, I'm going to change gears a little and post a scene featuring adult Aaron. Hopefully you will find these interesting! Please review. Thank you!**_

 _ **-LTLS**_

— _ **-**_

Mother drove with only one hand. Her free hand reached over and held tightly onto Aaron's.

"It'll be okay," she said over and over. "You'll be fine."

Irrationally, Aaron focused on her soothing voice. His right arm, wrapped in an extra shirt, rested in his lap, and he leaned over it, moaning. His forearm felt splintered, and each splinter felt like a digging blade. His shoulder felt like the target of a steadily swinging sledgehammer.

"It'll be okay. You'll be fine."

He squeezed her hand in return and tried to believe it.

—-

Aaron felt so cold as he sat in the emergency department waiting room. A tech knelt in front of him, holding his arm, examining it, asking questions. Aaron just listened as his mother answered every question for him.

"No, he fell out of a tree... Yes, I tried to stop him... What do you mean there's a dislocation too?"

Aaron just stared past the tech. He shivered. The pain gave him a headache, and he felt so, so cold. The pain became deadening, and he couldn't hear the voices anymore.

His mother's hand felt warm. Aaron did not let go.

—

Now Aaron lost himself in a dreamlike numbness. He sat on the edge of a white hospital bed, staring past the curtain at the nurses station. His right arm itched in a cast and a sling. He could hardly even remember what had happened.

Mother sat beside him, on the bed rather than the available chair. Still she held his hand.

How did he break his arm and dislocate his shoulder?

Didn't Mother...?

Then why was she sitting so close, holding his hand and stroking his hair? Whispering words of sympathy?

He felt so confused, but at least he didn't hurt so much now.

As he gazed around the curtain into the rest of the ER, Aaron noticed a small commotion across the hall. Two people in scrubs wheeled a stretcher out of a room. The stretcher was spread with a sheet which covered a child-sized mound not much more than three feet long. A tiny, babyish hand hung from the side of the stretcher. A toddler's pale hand. Like Sean's, only slightly bigger.

Nearby, a police officer forcefully cuffed a man who must have been the child's father. The man argued, whined, and pleaded. The officer's partner stood by, arms crossed, face ashen, numb with horror or anger.

Aaron felt like he should understand the expressions and what was going on, but his mind was having trouble catching up with his sight.

An ER employee slowly wheeled the stretcher away while a nurse spoke rapidly and angrily. The cops led the restrained man in the opposite direction.

Aaron glanced at his mom, wondering if she had witnessed the same scene. She didn't seem to have noticed, but just continued touching his face and hand affectionately, apologetically.

Aaron realized how easily he could have been killed at home, but he also realized how fortunate he was. He wasn't a three-foot-tall toddler. He could endure a lot more than other children could. His self pity was worthless when he didn't really have any idea what less fortunate youngsters were going through.

He was in a bad situation, but others had it much worse. There must be some reason why. Why did he survive even while others didn't? What was the purpose, _his_ purpose?

The impact of witnessing the lifeless form on the stretcher finally hit him. That child didn't even have a chance. That child didn't deserve to die, while Aaron got away with just a cast a sling. It wasn't right. Why couldn't he do anything for that child, to protect him like he did his own brother? It wasn't right, it just wasn't...

Overwhelmed by the injustice of it all, Aaron began to cry. Mother pulled him close. "It's okay, honey. Mommy's got you. I'll never hurt you again."

He didn't know or care what meaningless words she said, even as he let himself sink into her warm side. He only knew that she had once again stopped just short of killing him, and there had to be a good reason why.

As for that child... that child who now rested in Heaven's embrace... that child without a voice...

All Aaron could do was weep. If he couldn't give that toddler a voice, he could at least shed the child's unshed, unseen tears for him. Someday, he swore, he had to do more.

—-

 **In real life, about 75% of children who die because of abuse in the U.S. are under 4 years old.**


	13. Scene 13 -- Father's Legacy

_**Note: As with most of these scenes, this one makes most sense if you've read my other story "Curtain Call." If you haven't read that story, this chapter is a spoiler for the ending!**_

— _ **-**_

Aaron Hotchner remembered his own high school graduation. Pacing nervously for hours in the restroom. Questioning every teacher: had he really passed? Trying to wake himself up. It couldn't be possible. _He_ had graduated? _He_ , whom his parents planned to keep as a slave in their house forever; he who wasn't worth an ounce of their love?

Yes, _he_ had graduated. He had stood at Haley's right and stared, dazed, at the applauding parents, pretending his own were somewhere in the crowd. He had opened his own diploma, read his name in gold letters, and read it again. Haley kept hugging him, jumping up and down, and laughing.

"I did it?" He started smiling too. " _I_ did it?" Everyone around him was screaming and dancing. Aaron smiled bigger than he ever had before. " _I did it!"_

Soon after, he also made it into college, and he made it into law school. He made it to the altar, where Haley Brooks took his hand and they exchanged vows. He walked with her to their new home, and he started to rediscover the joy and purity of family, at last.

Now he prosecuted criminal cases for a living, and he enjoyed it too. He enjoyed experiencing what his father used to do and imitating him daily with his suit and tie. He hoped to have his own little boy someday to take on field trips and teach about the world. If he was blessed with a son of his own, he vowed not to die too soon and leave the child without a father.

Lately, though, he was feeling discontent with his job and his inability to help people more effectively. Haley didn't know if he was serious when he told her he had sent in an application to the FBI, just to see what would happen.

While his and Haley's lives were getting along just fine, Aaron always kept an eye out for his little brother. Sean grew up happily in a loving adoptive home, and Aaron visited him almost every week. They didn't have much in common, and the age gap did nothing to keep the brothers close. Sean tended to think of Aaron more as an uncle than as a brother, but in the end he knew they were bonded by their parents' blood. His favorite conversations revolved around stories Aaron would tell about his father. Sean seemed to admire the man almost as much as Aaron did. But whenever they got together and shared stories, one tiny detail never came up: that Aaron's father was not Sean's.

Today was Sean's high school graduation, and Aaron had attended while Haley stayed home helping Jessica prepare for a job interview. He wore tan slacks and a blue oxford shirt, formal but sparing everybody the expected sight of his customary suit. Naturally Sean was excited to graduate, but Aaron knew he didn't feel the same level of unbelievable elation Aaron had experienced at his own graduation. That was for the better. Sean got to experience the typical highs and lows and mediums of a normal kid's life. He didn't have the soaring highs that contrasted with chasm-deep lows, and his lows were considerably less frequent. He would never know what it meant to regularly drown in so much sorrow that the simplest triumph catapulted him into humble amazement. For that, Aaron was immensely grateful. Let Sean's sadnesses be mere sadnesses, and his happy moments merely happy.

Sean almost got chosen to give the graduation speech, but a classmate won the role instead. That didn't seem to bother Sean. Throughout the ceremony, he was a grinning goofball. He had so many friends to share the moment with, and he was more talkative than Aaron had ever seen him before.

The graduation dragged on for a while (what graduation doesn't?) but eventually every name had been called, every diploma received, and every senior photographed. Aaron clapped for his brother, thinking about the emotionless baby he once looked after. The squirt had really come far, and his adoptive family had done him a world of good. Sean smiled so much. Thank goodness he had no recollection of the earliest year of his life. He could have easily been the product of idealistic suburbia rather than the son of two psychotically abusive drunks.

Sean had invited a large group of friends to his home afterwards to celebrate. His adoptive parents participated by serving lemonade and snacks, but mostly they seemed a little lost in the crowd of high schoolers. Aaron watched from the sidelines, privately reminiscing. As a high schooler, he knew more worries than most, but still he understood the carefree freedom most young adults revelled in. Too soon, they would know adult responsibilities and have to take care of themselves. For now, the only thing on their minds was shouting and dancing and exchanging unrealistic plans for the future.

Aaron scanned the photos on the bureau under the window in the front room. Pictures of Sean through the ages. There was only one baby photo, the only snapshot his mother had thought to take. Aaron easily recalled those round cheeks and soft wisps of hair and huge, curious eyes. He also recalled carrying that baby in the most bizarre and dangerous of circumstances. No matter how much the baby grew up, Aaron knew he would always be responsible for looking out for him.

Many other photos followed Sean through a delightful, mostly Aaron-free childhood. Sean, king of the playground. Sean, swim team leader. Sean, middle school science project winner. Smiles, smiles, smiles. A single picture featured Sean with his brother, arm in arm, big grins, little resemblance. Aaron frowned at the image of his so-called smile. Funny how he looked in photos. Whenever his picture was taken (something he hated anyway) he always thought he was giving his biggest smile. But when he looked back on the photo, he wondered why somebody didn't remind him to say cheese.

At the end of the table was a framed sepia photograph of Mr. Hotchner in his Army uniform. Aaron paused, gazing at his father's welcoming expression. _His_ father.

Sean was hard to track down, but eventually Aaron spotted him beside the grandfather clock in the parlor. The young man was wearing a green polo and tan slacks, and he held onto his graduation cap. A handful of fellow students clustered around him, listening. Some of them had previously expressed interest in pursuing law school, so they all expected to be classmates in a pre-law program.

Sean was quick to take the spotlight, and quicker to brag. "With me, it's in the family blood. My dad, my brother, next me, all upholding the law. Talk about a legacy, right?"

Aaron suddenly started paying attention. Sean was holding up his brother's father as a personal role model, which had never bothered Aaron before. But now, in the midst of so many attentive young people, he felt concerned. He suddenly felt the need to tell Sean something he hoped he could hide forever.

Sean was in the middle of telling a dramatic story about Mr. Hotchner gathering evidence for an armed robbery prosecution despite opposition from the defense, a story that Aaron had told him last year. Aaron didn't expect to feel so uncomfortable, and he knew what needed to be done.

He walked casually over to the group and came up beside his animated brother. He cleared his throat as everybody else laughed at Sean's deliverance of the story.

"I remember that, Sean," said Aaron. "But you left out the part about the combination to the bank vault. Dad didn't ask the teller. He asked the janitor!"

Sean cleared his throat. "That's right. Everybody, this is my brother Aaron. The lawyer."

Aaron hadn't told him of his plans to exchange the law firm for a more proactive career with the FBI. He gave them a general nod of acknowledgement. "It's been awhile since I've gotten to have some one-on-one time with my baby brother," he said, earning a mock scowl from Sean. "Can you all excuse us for a few minutes?"

The group agreed, and Sean rotated his graduate cap absently in his hands. "Anything on your mind, Aaron?"

"Just a brotherly chat before you get lost in the jungle of college."

"It's not like you'll never see me again."

"True, but you're my brother. I'm not going to pass up a chance to see you off to a good start."

Sean wrinkled his brow. "Okay. I'm all ears."

Aaron nodded toward the kitchen. "Want a bite?"

Sean shook his head, but he followed Aaron around the corner and into the nearly empty, cozily decorated kitchen. Sean's adoptive mother hovered by the counter, arranging crackers and cheese dip on a silver tray. "Seany-boy, I know you said no sesame seeds, but we've gone through the entire box of plain wheat crackers..."

"Whatever you have is fine, ma'am," said Sean.

The woman hastily agreed and carried the tray out into the next room, muttering about keeping up with chaotic youngsters.

Sean set his cap on the counter beside used cookie sheets and gave Aaron a sideways glance. "Now what? A heart-to-heart? You know I don't do sentimental."

"I know," said Aaron softly.

Sean raised his shoulders. "Then what?"

Aaron sighed. "There's something I need to tell you. You're not going to like it, but I think it's time you knew."

"Oh no. You're not about to break the 'we were actually adopted' news, are you? I already know these nice folks aren't our real parents. I've known since fifth grade."

"Something else." Aaron let his gaze stray and settle at the photographs on the fridge. Sean looked perfectly in place with his adoptive family, especially in the Christmas photo where they all wore matching ugly sweaters. Aaron faced his brother again. "You were telling those students about your plans for law school?"

Sean's eyes wandered briefly as if searching for a memory of something he had done wrong. Coming up blank, he stared at Aaron again. "So?"

"I heard you talking about Dad a lot."

Sean laughed. "Yeah. Isn't it great? I'll finally be studying law, just like you, just like Dad. You knew that was my plan."

"Yes, I know. And I'm excited for you. But before you go, and before you tell anyone else anything different, I have to tell you the truth."

This was becoming harder than he had expected. Sean tipped his head forward, staring, anticipating the next words.

Finally Aaron mustered the courage to make his confession: "We didn't have the same dad."

Dead silence. Sean blinked a few times. "What?"

Aaron took a deep breath. "My dad died before you were born. Mom got with somebody else, your dad, and he died while you were a baby. And he wasn't a lawyer."

Sean put a hand to his forehead, pressing back against his hairline as he stared at the chicken-shaped clock on the wall. He shook his head. "Are you serious? I've been telling all my friends since grade school about how my dad was a lawyer, and how I would follow in his footsteps—just like you! Now you're telling me it was all a lie?"

Aaron felt terrible about it too. "Sean, I'm sorry. I was trying to protect you. I never thought of you as my half-brother. To me, you're more a Hotchner than you are your father's son."

Sean seemed to catch the uneasy tone in his brother's voice. He tilted his head and eyed Aaron suspiciously. "I don't believe this. You're making a joke. Aren't you?"

Aaron shook his head once. "I wish I was."

Right then, a burly high schooler with dreadlocks and a basketball jersey popped around the kitchen doorway. "Sean!" He came forward with a big grin and wrapped Sean in a quick hug. "Congrats, man!"

Sean forced a smile, obviously still thinking about what Aaron had revealed. Aaron watched his brother's friend closely. He had recently gotten into the habit of scrutinizing everybody's behavior and personalities, a habit that Haley found annoying.

The newcomer eyed Sean at arm's length. "Off to pre-law, huh? Sure you don't want to take the basketball scholarship?"

"I'm sure," said Sean steadily. "The law is in my blood, and that's my passion."

His friend shrugged. "Right. I came in here for a glass of grape juice. Got any?"

"Look in the fridge. You know where to find it."

The young man found the jug and took an agonizingly long time pouring himself a drink. Finally he picked up the cup and headed for the doorway. "Come join the party, man! Somebody found your Led Zeppelin records and wants you to do your Kashmir drumming imitation."

"Maybe in a minute." Sean hadn't broken his gaze from Aaron's face. He waited for his friend to disappear before crossing his arms and asking a question. "What was my real father like?"

Aaron caught himself from wincing. "He fought in the war, just like my dad. He worked on computers, and he liked to fix cars."

"You're telling me what he _did_ , Aaron. But what was he _like_?"

Aaron searched his brother's face. He could see some resemblance to his stepfather, tiny similarities he'd rather ignore. He didn't want to tell Sean about the truth, about the real legacy his father left him, one of violence rather than justice.

Did Sean need to know that his father was addicted to thoughts of war and spent every day smoking his lungs out? Did Sean need to know that the only times his father came near him were to tower over the crib while threatening to silence his hungry cries, no matter what? Aaron didn't want to tell Sean that the only reason he was alive to graduate today was because his big brother stepped between the crib and a closed fist on a regular basis. Nobody wanted to hear that their half-brother broke several bones keeping their father away from them.

"He was nothing like you are now," said Aaron finally. "He didn't care about people."

Sean gave him a blank stare. "What are you not telling me?"

At that moment, a brunette girl stuck her head in the kitchen. "Where's the bathroom? I need to fix my hair!"

Without looking back at her, Sean pointed in a general direction. "Down the hall, first door on your left."

The girl rushed off with both hands to her loose scrunchie. Sean's attention had not strayed from his brother, and he waited expectantly for an answer.

Hesitating, Aaron briefly flashed back to getting struck off-balance in front of the crib while Sean wailed endlessly. The man leaned over the boy on the floor. " _Had enough yet? Ready to let the squirt take his own lesson?"_

 _Unsteady, Aaron climbed back up to his feet, using the crib bars for support. He faced the man again, unshaken._

 _Another blow sent him crashing onto his side on the floorboards. He tried to get his hands under him, preparing to get back up again. The baby howled._ Why won't you _ever_ stop crying, Sean?

Aaron pulled himself from the past and sighed. "Your father treated me badly. That's all there is to it. I'm just telling you about him because I don't want you to go on believing a lie, even a wonderful one. I wish so much that you were my father's son, and that he could be here now, but it's simply not the truth. I'm sorry I've deceived you for so long."

Sean stood quietly taking it all in and gazing at the cabinets behind Aaron's head. He didn't look as upset as Aaron feared he would be, but he did look deeply disappointed. Finally he murmured, "Aaron. I want to go on believing I'm your brother. I want to still think of your dad as my dad."

Aaron ventured a hand on his shoulder, an uncommon gesture coming from him. "That's alright with me."

Sean leaned against the counter edge and blew out a long breath. "I guess I should get back out there. I don't know if it will be the same though."

"I'm sorry..."

Sean held up a hand. "You're right. It's probably best that you told me. I'm just... just disappointed. It might take me awhile to really process this."

"That's understandable." Aaron felt hugely relieved that Sean hadn't blown up like he did when he didn't pass his driver's license test the first time. "And Sean, don't hesitate to reach out to me with any questions you might have."

"Sure." Sean gave him a quick, almost insincere half-nod. "So tell me, Aaron. How did he die?"

"My father?"

"No, mine."

 _Oh, no. Don't dig up this story, Sean. You don't want to know._ "I think I've told you enough shocking information for now. How about we get together sometime later and you can ask all about..."

"How did he die?"

There would be no arguing against that tone. Aaron swallowed. "He died trying to take you."

Sean seemed to steel himself. "I asked _how_ did he die?"

Aaron had made up his mind never to tell his brother. Now he saw how foolish he had been in hiding the truth; a kid like Sean would not take no for an answer.

Wishing he could disappear, Aaron quietly answered: "I shot him."

All the color washed from Sean's face. He moved backward.

That's when his adoptive mother walked into the kitchen again and set down an empty silver tray. "I don't know about all those kids, Sean," she said as she dipped some empty cookware into the sink. "They seem a little too wild for you."

Sean said nothing. He looked ghostlike.

The woman glanced back at the two men who were locked in an intent stare. She sighed contentedly. "It just makes me so happy to see my boys sharing their time, talking together like always."

She walked over and gave Aaron a motherly hug. "I'm so glad you came. We've missed you."

She then turned and hugged Sean. "Listen to you whatever advice your brother has to give. I know he loves you."

She smiled and gazed back and forth between the two. She shook her head and chuckled lightly. "I can't believe how much you've both grown up! I'm so proud of you boys. And I know your father would have been proud."

Sean arched his eyebrow.

The woman made a self-conscious silly face. "Alright, I know when I'm interrupting. See you both later."

With that, she walked out humming "We Are Family."

Aaron stared after her, imagining, like he often did, that she had really been his mother. It was easy to resent and envy Sean for so many reasons, but those feelings had to be wrangled again.

Sean still appeared stunned. "I don't know what to say. What to think."

Aaron quickly spoke up. "I would understand if you hate me now for letting you believe a lie, if you never want to see me again. I just thought you should know the truth."

"I... I don't believe this. You shot my father?"

Aaron nodded. "He was going to kill us."

Sean looked at his shoes. "I think I should thank you. But I just feel numb."

Aaron didn't know what to say. He wished he could make them both feel better, but no words could repair a childhood of deceit and agony.

"I gotta go." Sean turned away and walked to the doorway.

"If you ever want to talk..." Aaron stopped himself. Sean had left the room.

Was it really better to tell Sean the truth? Aaron felt so torn with regret and relief. He hoped the news wouldn't have any major impact on Sean's life. He was, after all, more influenced by his adoptive family than by the memory of his parents... wasn't he?

Aaron left the room and looked into the parlor. Sean was once again the center of attention, and several friends were showing him a stack of records. Everybody talked, everybody was excited about something. Sean's adoptive father sat in an armchair near the back, watching them as he sipped his tea. To his side was the bureau with the display of pictures. Aaron looked for his father's photo, and to his dismay, he saw it laying on its face.

What had he done? What was Sean thinking now?

Aaron didn't realize it then, but today was the beginning of a growing rift between the half-brothers. Apparently there was more than different blood between them, and nothing could fix the distance that wedged between their lives.

When Aaron got accepted into the FBI academy a month later, he checked in with Sean and asked how his college plans were going. "Still getting ready for law school?"

"I don't know," was the short, uncomfortable answer.

Aaron had never before felt so upset at his stepfather for posthumously breaking the spirit of a fatherless baby. A broken family might always suffer, but Aaron knew that their legacy was a matter of choice.

"You're a Hotchner," he reminded his brother.


	14. Scene 14 -- Mutiny!

_**I have more scenes featuring Adult Aaron planned, but for now, I'm taking another dive into the past for this scene that may have been the most exciting to write. I'd love to know what you think!**_

 _ **Note: I am not striving for 100% realism in this chapter. In particular, I acknowledge that I gave Sean a mentality that would be far too mature for his age. It just worked better this way.**_

 _ **-LTLS**_

—-

Waiting for dinner was a tentative activity. Aaron never knew how long he could safely wait before any chance of eating was gone for good. It all depended on Mother's mood, and, occasionally, on what food was actually available.

If he waited in hiding, he could expect to starve. If he waited in the open, he was an easy target. At least that way he might not be forgotten, and he might, just maybe, get a bite or two. So he sat on the edge of the couch, folded his hands, and tried not to react to the arguing voices from the next room. He waited.

On the living room floor, Sean—dressed only in a diaper and a blue T-shirt—lifted his head and chest off the ground and tried to figure out how to move on his hands and knees. He swayed from side to side, feeling his weight, testing his balance. Then his chest dropped to the floor again. He wiggled his arms at his sides like a baby bird struggling to catch a breeze.

Aaron sighed and reached down to pick the baby up under the arms. Setting his brother on his lap, Aaron looked into his round, bright face. "Are you hungry too?"

Of course not. Sean finished a bottle of milk just over an hour ago. He would probably get another one soon. Decent helpings of milk were always available for Mommy's favorite baby. Aaron would have settled for just one sip.

This wasn't Sean's fault. He was just a helpless, confused baby being used, like everything else, against his brother. Well, Aaron wouldn't let that get to him.

"I don't know how long I'll have to wait," he said, glancing at the clock.

Sean wouldn't sit still. He seemed eager for action.

Aaron turned to the squat lamp table at the couch's right. The shelf beneath the drawer held a colorful collection of books that languished beneath lumps of dust. Aaron pinched a thin hardback spine and pulled the old, brownish book from the shelf. He blew on it, raising puffs of dust.

The spine groaned as Aaron opened the book. Sean slapped the yellowed pages, excited.

"This is a fun story," said Aaron. "Will you sit still for me?"

He found the first page. A detailed pen drawing of a majestic ship at sea graced the page opposite the text. Sean leaned close to see better while blowing bubbles with saliva.

Staying alert to nearby sounds and voices, Aaron began to read aloud. Sean sat still and listened as his brother's voice painted a whole world of adventure around them.

—-

Dusk. Sean looked out over the bulwark and scanned the sunset in the cloudy horizon. He felt the salty lash of ocean mist on his face and smelled wet wood and mildew. The deck teetered under his feet. His feet—so he was really standing! What a curious feeling that was. He had never been able to stand on his own before. He really felt like a big boy now!

Did this mean he no longer had to wear diapers? Excited, he looked down. Aww, darn. He needed more imagination.

Returning his attention to the sea, Sean watched the greenish blue folds wrinkle and spread for miles and miles around. A couple of gulls cried and soared up into the thick foam of pinkish gray clouds. Sean opened his mouth and stared, amazed by every detail. When he looked up, he could see the rim of his black hat, which was really too big for him, but too wonderful to remove.

"Captain!"

Sean turned to see his first mate (or was that his big brother?) walking toward him in brown trousers and a baggy white shirt. He had a red bandana on his head, an eye patch over his left eye, and a sword on his belt. Sean reached to his own side and found that he too had a sword. He smiled.

"Look at this map," said Aaron as he unrolled a tattered, yellowish piece of paper. He spread the paper over the drum of the capstan.

Sean stood on his toes and reached up for the bottom corner of the paper. Aaron lowered the map for him to see.

"We're a hundred miles east of this island and two hundred miles west of the departing dock," said Aaron, pointing out specks on the map. "Should we change course to reach the bay sooner?"

Sean nodded. The present course did not seem direct enough. He ran his tiny finger over the map to chart a new path going above the island.

"Aye, Captain," said Aaron, and he called out, "We're heading northwest! Turn the ship!"

Through a wavering fog or a boundary in imagination, Sean could not see the crew. But he knew they were there, scurrying over wood and up ropes, hollering to each other, steering the ship. The billowing sails ruffled and swayed, catching large gusts. Cold, dark water splattered over the deck as the ship turned against a broken wave.

It was an impressive warship, a frigate, Aaron called it. He boasted about its forty guns and powerful speed carried by sails on three towering masts. "Almost no greater warship at sea," Aaron had said proudly. "Only the ships-of-the-line are bigger."

Sean took it all in, delighted to be captain of such magnificence. He walked beside Aaron toward the starboard side of the ship, staying steady even as the bow raised and dipped on every wave.

Aaron leaned against the edge and held up a spyglass. He peered through while Sean nervously watched the churning skies.

"Captain, have a look." Aaron handed the spyglass down.

Sean took the cold tube and saw a circular section of horizon magnified. White froth crashed along the further edges of the sea, rising higher with the wind, blending with the dark clouds that blotted out the setting sun. Electric flashes threw the depths of the clouds into brighter relief.

Sean pointed upward. The sails.

Aaron nodded. "I'll have the sails reefed." That meant _rolled up_ , he quickly explained.

But when they turned away from the sea, they saw the burly figure of the boatswain, the sailor in charge of cables and rigging, standing mere yards away with arms crossed. His hat was crooked, his muscles massive, his beard angry with tangles. He smelled strongly of rum, and his eyes looked red. Sean noticed the handle of a primed flintlock pistol jutting out of the man's belt.

Sean glared. Aaron's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

"We're taking the ship," said the sailor, and he raised his sword. Through the fog, a cluster of human shapes were barely discernible. They were closing in on the two boys.

"Mutiny!" Aaron whispered to his brother, but Sean didn't understand.

A sharp, metallic ring announced the drawing of the first mate's sword. Aaron brandished the blade in front of him and muttered, "Take cover, Captain! I won't let them take the ship."

That part Sean did understand. He ran and dove between the boatswain's legs, picked himself up, and ran some more. It was an amazing feeling, running, more like flying really. He moved so swiftly, so independently. What freedom! What adventure!

He heard the clang of clashing swords and glanced back. Aaron was directing the fight, drawing the crew away from the edge of the sea and toward the masts. His sword glimmered for an instant as it caught a ray of runaway sunlight, then it turned cold and gray as it swooped around to meet another curved blade. Each _clang_ rang out so loudly, so fiercely, that Sean feared resistance was in vain. He touched his own sword. Was he ready to use it?

Not yet. He couldn't charge the enemy without a plan. Aaron had assured him he wouldn't let the ship be taken, and Aaron meant what he said. Sean decided to trust him.

He reached the port side of the ship and leaned over the edge. A life boat covered in canvas hung by thick cables, dangling just over the growing waves. Sean climbed over the edge of the ship and let himself drop onto the canvas. The fabric was tougher than he expected. He crawled to one end and slipped through a narrow opening. Finally he settled in the hull of the boat, where only shadows filtered through and the darkness was dense. The small boat rocked when he moved, and even if he sat motionless, the movement of the ship made the rowboat sway. For the first time on this voyage, Sean felt a little sick.

Mostly he felt afraid. He didn't know what would happen with the storm coming and the mutiny rising. Situations like these made him want to just curl up and retreat from the world. This time, he forced himself to pay attention.

—-

Aaron looked up from the book. A shout had risen in the next room, and his arm curled reflexively tighter around Sean's middle. He had managed to block the sounds of his parents arguing for a while, but now they were becoming more pronounced. They were shouting over each other, which was never a good sign.

"I didn't sign up to be a father!" yelled Charles. "I'm not paying to feed them!"

"Well, someone has to!" Mother shot back. "That paycheck is half mine."

"Don't come near my money! You can all starve for all I care!"

"Forget the boys! I need a life, for crying out loud. Now give me my money!"

Aaron closed the book, tucked it under his arm, and got to his feet. Sean pressed his ear into his brother's chest while gazing wide-eyed at the kitchen doorway. One little hand held a fistfull of Aaron's sleeve. The other settled inside the baby's mouth.

Food was out of the question. Aaron knew where the conversation was heading. He knew how these days always went. So instead of standing there in the open, he carried Sean to the closet under the stairs, let himself in, and quietly closed the door, shutting them both into darkness.

He sunk to a seated position beneath hanging coats, then reached around in the dark. Behind a folded umbrella and a set of never-used tennis rackets, he had hidden a small metal flashlight. It came in handy when the closet became the only safe place to get homework done.

Aaron clicked on the light, and Sean reached in awe for the beam. Objects suddenly appeared out of the dark, dimly lit and colored by a single tiny bulb. The shadow of Sean's curious hand fell over a stack of magazines and a tape player that hadn't seen daylight ever since Billy Joel first crooned "The Piano Man." A bicycle pump leaned into the far corner, right beside an embroidered Vietnamese painting of a man sowing a basketful of seeds.

Aaron sat back against a tattered leather suitcase with stickers from several states on it. Though tight and musty, the closet was comfortable and familiar to him. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and deeply breathed a sleeve of the coat above his head, he could still smell his father's cologne.

Aaron got Sean comfortably settled in his lap and opened the book again. He helped support the baby with the side of the flashlight, which he aimed downward and away from the door. He searched the small print for his place.

A ceramic crash interrupted his thoughts. Mother's yell was muffled by the closed door and at least a room-length distance. But it was clear all the same: "And then what do you expect me to do, just bury him in the backyard? Someone would find out. We _have_ to give him something to eat now and then!"

Aaron lost his place again. He angled the book up toward the light and resumed his search, though his eyes only grazed over the text. He might never get used to the horrible shouts and discussions that stripped away whatever self-worth he tried to cling to. It wasn't the first time his parents had openly considered doing away with him for good, and each time he wondered how many more days he had.

He cleared his throat and began to whisper. "...The storm drew nearer as the wind buffeted the ship right toward it. Reefing the sails usually took an hour, time that did not exist in the growing vortex. Every wave sent the ship lurching in another direction, and tying the cables became an impossible task..."

He paused. Charles was cutting Mother off, and loudly. His voice seemed to move out of the kitchen and into the living area.

"He can't eat if he's sick," the man argued. "If his stomach aches from bruises, or if he swallows all his teeth. Can't waste food on an invalid who can't even chew, right?"

"I'm sure he'd rather die," said Mother dismissively.

Aaron pulled Sean closer. The book trembled in his hand. "Shh," he whispered.

A brief interlude of quiet, angry growls replaced the argument. Aaron held his breath.

"Where is he?" demanded Charles.

"Look upstairs." Mother sounded annoyed.

"I'll teach him to waste our money. And for him to think he can hide...!"

The voice receded up the stairs. Aaron turned a page in the book.

He heard the basement door open. "Aaron!" Mother called. "If you don't come out, you'll get _nothing_ to eat."

Aaron took a deep breath. Mother was tempting him to fall right into their trap, but he refused to listen anymore. This fight wasn't worth fighting today.

"Sean, here's what you can do to help me," he whispered. "Don't make a sound."

Then he continued reading softly in the baby's ear.

—-

Nothing to do but listen. Clangs, crashes, thumps, and shouts. Sean crouched beneath the thwarts, the wooden boards crossing the lifeboat's width for seating. He buried four fingers of one hand in his mouth and sucked on them nervously. He wanted his pacifier. He wanted his blanket and his soft, squishy bear. He was scared and wished the storm would go away, the sailors would stop fighting, and the skies would clear up for the rest of his life.

An explosive wave rocked the whole ship, and the lifeboat thumped against the port side. Sean rolled about in the hull, flailing for a handhold. This was nothing like getting rocked to sleep. More like getting shaken awake. The hilt of his sword jabbed his side, and his hat fell over his eyes. He gurgled and tried to sit up, but his hideout was too unsteady.

The sounds of war blasted above the sounds of the storm. Guttural yells and salty taunts made Sean flinch. Metal blades clanked against each other or thunked into wood. He heard a loud _pop_ , crackle, and boom, almost simultaneous. Was it one of those primed pistols firing? Or was it a clap of thunder?

Heavy fingers of rain danced on the canvas above Sean's head. Each drop hit with a dull _thwop_ and began soaking into a dark circle. He wondered how long until the rain pooled so thickly it would begin to leak inside.

Sean felt dizzy from all the dips and jolts. What use was hiding? He would die anyway when the storm pummeled the ship to the bottom of the sea. Wasn't _he_ the captain? Shouldn't he be up there fighting?

Aaron said there was a way Sean could help: by not making a sound. So that was the trick, that was his mission. He would help, just as Aaron had suggested. It was his duty.

Sean pulled himself to the stern of the rowboat. He climbed out from under the canvas and into the direct sweep of the cold, rainy wind. He adjusted his hat, which blocked some rain from his face. Gathering his resolve, taking a deep breath, Sean reached for the cables holding the lifeboat aloft and climbed up to the bulwark. Now he had a full view of the fight.

Several unclear figures swarmed around the center mast. Sailors scrambled up tackle and nets with knives between their teeth and shiny swords waving in their free hands. The coxswain fought to control the wheel at the back of the vessel, and near him a few seamen had set up a row of upward-aiming cannons.

Sean searched frantically for Aaron. He looked to where the boatswain was climbing, the middle mast. Out on a teetering yardarm, just above a half-furled sail, Aaron straddled the beam with one leg hooked around a thick reefing tie. His right hand supported him on the mainyard, and his left held out a sword toward the sailors climbing the mast below him. Whenever a sailor reached his perch, he engaged him in a fierce sword fight that usually sent his opponent falling a great distance.

The storm kicked the ship viciously from side to side, and Aaron looked like he might fall all the way down to the deck at any moment. The mast dove and swerved, sending the yardarms into a dangerous sweep, and Aaron hugged the beam and braced himself against a hurricane of windswept, twisting rain. The boatswain held on to the web of rope that stretched all the way up the main mast. When the wave had passed, the sailor raised his sword again and continued climbing. Aaron heaved on the rope that pulled up one section of the enormous sail. He was making very slow progress and still had the majority of the sails to close.

Sean toddled across the wet deck, feeling more like a baby now that the ship shook with the wind and his legs shook with fright. Maybe he couldn't walk after all. Maybe his imagination would fail him.

Deep puddles sloshed across the deck like spilled oil, collecting in one corner, then rolling away as the ship moved, then splashing against the bulwark. Icy water lapped around Sean's knees. He slipped, and the current carried him to the middle of the deck. He caught himself on a pile of rope at the feet of a gangly sailor with a clouded-over face. Sean gasped as a flash of lightning tossed the sailor's shadow over his little body.

 _Don't make a sound,_ Aaron had instructed. Sean couldn't be sure if he'd been spotted. He grabbed the hilt of his sword in both tiny hands and put all his strength into drawing it from the sheathe. The sword was only the length of his arm, about a dagger size. But it was light, and he could handle it with both hands. The tall sailor was about to climb the main mast. Soundless, Sean raised his blade and then lowered it swiftly onto the man's thick boot.

The man hollered, his cry ringing above the crashing waves and thunder. He whirled around, sword waving, searching for his attacker. Sean crawled around the mast and sat there panting. Another lurch of the ship caught the confused man off-balance, and he went tumbling across the deck and over the edge. The sea gulped him right up like a tasty morsel.

Sean sighed with relief and peered around the massive post to wait for the next attacker. He looked up. The boatswain had reached the mainyard and kept swinging his sword at Aaron's head. Aaron blocked many blows with his own sword. Those he couldn't block, he ducked beneath. His attacker's sword lodged into the wooden beam inches from where Aaron's leg was, and he scooted backward, but he was running out of space. The boatswain swept his sword around in an underhanded blow that knocked Aaron's weapon clean out of his hand. Sean watched the thin, shiny blade plummet end-over-end before clattering onto the deck a few feet away.

Furious, the baby crawled over to the sword and grabbed its handle. The horror and injustice of this situation hit him harder than the rain that beat down on everybody. This was _his_ ship, his and Aaron's! This was where they lived, sailed, and played, their only safe place in the world. What reason did they have to be attacked on their own ship? Where did such betrayal come from? The tragedy of it tore into Sean's heart, and he got to his feet with Aaron's sword dragging from his hands. The sword was probably longer than Sean was tall, and the blade angled down against the deck. He couldn't possibly lift it.

He looked up again. Aaron crawled backwards just ahead of the burly seaman's reach. He slipped on the wet beam, and his legs dropped into midair. Sean gasped. Just in time, his first mate grabbed onto the coils of thick hemp rope that hung just above the sail. He dangled there, unable to let go, unwilling to pull himself back up into the hands of the mutineer.

Sean looked toward the back of the ship and saw two sailors stuffing powder and cloth wadding down the barrel of a cannon. One of them rolled a black cannonball down the dark tube, and he used a ramrod to shove more wadding on top of that. He crouched beside the cannon, trying to hold it steady, angling it upward toward the main mast.

Sean panicked. Surely they couldn't fire the gun in the rain. Surely...

One of the sailors held up a metal plate to shield from the rain as he lit the fuse. From across the deck, the brilliant spark shone in Sean's wide eyes.

—

Aaron felt the baby's fists tighten on his shirt. Sean looked up at him, wide eyes reflecting the flashlight glare. Aaron didn't know how much of the story a baby could understand, but Sean seemed to have some idea of the sense of danger. The baby's look of terror and concern surprised Aaron.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "Let me keep reading."

Sean hugged his arm and did not let go, which made holding the book a little tricky. Sean never usually showed concern, or even affection, for his big brother. Maybe he finally understood to some extent the level of danger Aaron was really in, or the pain he suffered. Maybe, as they hid in the closet out of view of hurtful hands and voices, Sean finally had some idea of how real Aaron's battle for survival was.

Or maybe he was simply engaged in the story, and he didn't want the few good sailors on the ship to get hurt. Little kids could have big imaginations. Maybe Sean was oblivious to real concerns after all. Who knew what Sean thought.

Aaron adjusted his grip on the flashlight, let Sean hug his arm with tourniquet strength, and continued reading in a whisper.

—-

The orange flash and bone-shaking _CRACK-OOOOOM!_ that thundered over the deck were so startling, Sean fell backwards onto the coils of rope. He heard a shrill whistling sound scream overhead. Smoke hissed through the rain, blotting out the droplets, melding with the dark clouds. There was a loud smack and the sound of ripping canvas. Sean gazed up at the smoldering black hole in the sail far above him, where the cannonball had punched right through. Aaron was nowhere to be seen.

Sean sat straight up, mouth hanging open. _No!_ Where's my mate? My first mate? My brother? My friend? My protector? Who hurt him?

Sean scanned the deck. Then he searched the skies. He could practically see the wind as torrents of rain thrashed about in waves and patterns. He squinted against the cold gales and prayed that some miracle had occurred—the gunmen had missed, Aaron was okay. He saw the boatswain leaning over the yardarm, shouting, and stretching out his arm with his sword pointed downward.

Sean lowered his gaze from the mainyard. Lightning flashed, and he saw a boy's shadow holding onto a length of rope beside the sail. Against the backdrop of a stormy night, Aaron was invisible.

Sean breathed again. _Thank God._

The coils of rope above the sail slowly unwound, being pulled from below. Sean suspected that Aaron was attempting to lower himself by the rope all the way to the deck, but first he needed enough rope.

The wind threw Aaron against the sail. He maintained his grips on the canvas and the rope, frantically trying to unwind enough line to make the descent. But now he had been spotted. The boatswain on the beam above him drew his flintlock pistol. With a fat finger, he rotated the cock from half to full, releasing the safety lock. He then aimed right for Aaron's head. The boatswain pressed the trigger, and Sean screamed.

—-

"Shhh!" said Aaron, clamping a hand over his brother's babyish shriek.

Sean shook his head away from the hand and jammed his fingers into his mouth again.

Aaron turned the page and cautiously continued.

—

When nothing happened, Sean wondered if the flint had failed to ignite because of the rain. He hoped so, and judging by the boatswain's expression, he assumed so.

Aaron had unwound several large loops of rope. Without looking back, he let go of the sail and wound both hands around the knot he had tied at the end of the rope. Sean watched him fall with the line rippling and straightening above him. His heel kicked off of the lower yardarm, propelling his drop further.

Sean realized moments before Aaron reached the deck that the line was too short. How short, he couldn't be sure. Suddenly the rope jerked into a straight line, having fallen its length. Aaron dangled at the height of two seamen standing on each other's shoulders. He waved his arm, gesturing for Sean to move aside, and then he let go of the rope.

Sean dragged his brother's sword behind him as he backed into the foot of the mast. Aaron fell right through the wind and rain, right past the reach of sailors who clung to the net like bloodthirsty spiders on a web. He wrapped his arms around his head just before he hit the deck on his knees and tumbled into an uncontrolled roll. Finally he lay in a motionless heap against the capstan. His arm dropped to his side and he tried to sit up.

Sean ran to him, still dragging the sword. A sailor also charged in Aaron's direction, so Sean raised one end of the sword at just enough height to trip the man. The sailor fell on his face and rolled across the deck as it pitched again on a high wave.

Sean reached his brother's side and held out the hilt of the sword. Aaron had lost his eyepatch somewhere in the fight, and now Sean could see the thin red cut over his left eye. Was it from this battle, or a previous one?

Blinking against the rain, Aaron grabbed Sean's arm and smiled at him. "We cannot abandon the ship," he said. "Take command of your vessel, Captain."

Sean did not feel like the captain. He felt like a wee scalawag, unprepared and unqualified for any serious battle. He pulled on Aaron's arm, wordlessly insisting his first mate come with him.

Aaron took his sword and slowly got to his feet. Sailors struggled to rush at them, but the deck had become slick and sickening. Swords extended, Aaron and Sean made their way to the elevated stern of the ship and climbed the steps to the captain's wheel. The coxswain fought to control the steering, but he could barely grapple the wheel. The swords of the two boys persuaded the sailor to back away. At Aaron's order, the man clambered down the ladder to the main deck.

Sean gripped the lower spokes of the wheel.

"Got it?" Aaron asked.

 _I'm just a baby,_ thought Sean, but he nodded. He would give everything he had into keeping the ship on course.

Aaron stood at his side, ready with his sword to fend off anymore attackers.

"Let's take her home," he yelled over the wind.

Even to the end of the sea, they would fight for this ship. It was all they had left.

—-

Aaron had closed the book and now sat fiddling with the deck of cards from the back of the closet. Sean sat quietly in his lap. Too quietly. He didn't even try to explore his surroundings or complain about their growing familiarity. Could a baby be so pensive?

"Did you like the story?" Aaron whispered. "If you did, we can read more some other time."

Sean leaned on his arm, breathing steadily, gazing into the thick shadows. Seemingly lost in thought.

"It's almost your bedtime," muttered Aaron. "Are you tired?"

 _What does a baby think about?_ he wondered. _Does he even have rational thoughts? Did he understand one word that I read him?_

Pondering the infant brain, Aaron continued silently flipping through cards and listening for sounds from the outside. He hadn't heard a word for at least half an hour.

Maybe by now it was safe to venture outside. His legs were stiff, and his hunger bored into his middle like a power drill.

"Stay quiet," he whispered as he shifted Sean into a better grip and worked his own feet under him. He rose halfway up and turned the doorknob in total silence. He gave it a slight push and peeked through the crack.

No one in sight. The lamp had been left on, but that was normal.

Aaron clicked off the flashlight and stepped out of the closet. He took a deep breath of less stagnant—albeit more smoky—air and stretched his legs. Now he would make sure Sean got his last bottle before bed, and a clean diaper too. Sean rested his head on Aaron's shoulder as he walked over to the kitchen.

He stopped abruptly in the doorway. Mother stood at the sink with her back to him, quietly scrubbing a saucepan with a sudsy green sponge.

She took a few steps to the side, picked up a bread knife from the cutting board at the far end of the counter, and carried it back to the sink. She had left a small heap of bread crumbs and crusts on the board, priceless morsels that she would no doubt throw out with the trash. Not willing to risk suffering another attack today, Aaron took a step backwards, but she must have heard him.

"Is that you, Aaron?" She didn't even turn her head.

His gut twisting, Aaron nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him. "Yes, Mom."

Mother stuck her thumb in the direction of a full bottle of milk on the counter. "Give Sean his bottle."

Aaron slowly approached the counter. He held Sean on his right side, away from his mother, and his left hand picked up the baby bottle. The idea of asking for dinner crossed his mind, but he just knew she would snap at him and maybe give him a mouthful of knuckles in reply. If she avoided looking at him, it meant she was irritable and liable to blow up at the slightest provocation. So Aaron just gripped the bottle and swallowed his plea for food.

Then something surprising happened. From the corner of his eye, he saw the baby's little, pudgy hand reach out toward the cutting board on the end of the counter by the fridge. His fist closed on a crust of bread, and he quickly pulled it back to his chest.

Aaron's heart skipped a beat. Without a word, he carried the bottle and the baby out of the kitchen. Still not willing to believe his luck, he peered around the doorway to see if Mother would notice. She just picked up the cutting board and swept the remaining crusts and crumbs into the trash, clearly ignorant of the change in amount.

Aaron pulled back and broke into an elated grin. He carried Sean down to the basement and took the pilfered crust of bread.

He shook his head and laughed. "Well, aren't you a real little buccaneer!" he chuckled.

Sean smiled too, though Aaron didn't know if he understood the significance of his furtive action.

"Here, you might like to try this on." Aaron opened a cardboard box and removed a black pirate hat with a red feather. Sean sat on the rag heap, watching eagerly. When Aaron placed the oversized hat on his head, Sean gripped the rim and giggled. He looked strangely familiar with the hat, and he didn't look like he would ever give it back. Aaron laughed, marveling at the infant mind, unfathomable thing that it was.

He picked up his baby brother again and fed him the bottle, looking forward to the prospect of devouring his own dinner momentarily. Somehow, today felt like a small victory.

 _Whatever happens, we cannot abandon the ship!_


	15. Scene 15 -- Hands

_**Here is a thoughtful perspective on Haley's private suffering. If I can tie up some loose ends quickly, the next chapter will feature grown-up Aaron, David Rossi, and a very tricky FBI trainee situation. So stay tuned! Thank you for reading, and for your patience, and please, please, please review! Muchas gracias!**_

— _ **-**_

All Haley wanted was to hold Aaron's hand and enjoy a sweet, worry-free high school romance.

This simple dream of hers shattered every day. Today, she sat in study hall working through a sheet of math problems and wondering if Aaron would show up. She hadn't seen him yet today, and that usually meant he was taking another "sick day." The very thought made Haley feel sick.

She looked up at the sound of the classroom door opening behind her. Aaron pushed the door open with his shoulder and quietly slipped inside. His right hand was buried in his pocket, and he had his notebook tucked under his arm. His left hand was clenched and shaking, his knuckles and fingers mottled with purple, scarlet, and white.

Haley didn't mean to stare, but Aaron soon caught her eye and walked toward her. He sat in the empty seat at her left and dropped his notebook. Everybody in study hall looked up briefly as it hit the floor with pages flapping open.

When Aaron didn't move, Haley bent over to pick up the notebook. She leaned close as she returned it and whispered, "Are you okay?"

Aaron was breathing heavily. He gave a quick nod of the head, but Haley didn't believe for a second that he was okay.

Aaron reached for the pencil on his desk, but his hand shook too hard and his fingers wouldn't grip it properly. With a sideways glance, Haley got a good look at the deep bruising all over the front and back of his left hand. She winced, trying in vain to imagine how much that must hurt.

She suspected that his hand, held up in self defense, had been struck so hard with something like a belt, so many times, that he literally could not hold a pencil today. He tried anyway, but he kept tearing up, which in turn made his face redden, and he seemed so ashamed and helpless. He laid out his math papers, pausing frequently. Every time he tried to use his hand, he looked like he was about to cry.

Haley set down her own pencil. "Let me help you," she whispered.

"I'm okay..." her friend mumbled.

"No, you're not. What happened to your hand?"

Aaron said nothing, but he didn't stop Haley from examining the damage. "It does look bad." She bit her lip, thinking. "Let me see your other hand."

Aaron's right hand was still buried up to the wrist in his jeans pocket. He tensed and jammed it in deeper. "No. You don't need to see it."

Haley felt the familiar wrenching in her stomach. She felt sick and anxious. "Maybe... maybe I can help. Let me see."

"No." His answer was firm and final.

Haley's mouth went dry. "Is it that bad?" she whispered.

Aaron lowered his head. "Mom keeps forgetting I'm left-handed. I don't ever want her to remember."

Haley made sure Aaron was looking at his papers before she wiped her eyes with her palm. What did his monster mother _do_? Just beat his hands to a pulp?

"I'll tell you what," she whispered. "I'll write your answers for you. You work out the problems and tell me what to write."

"I can't make you do that..."

"You're not. I'm choosing to. Now what do you make of the first problem?"

Aaron stared at the paper, then shook his head. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. You need to find _x_ , okay? How should you rearrange the equation?"

Aaron didn't look up. "Subtract 36y - 78 from both sides," he said in a low monotone.

Haley began transcribing what he said. Her own hand shook a little as she wrote. "Now what?"

"Would you mind solving it for me as well?"

Haley smiled. "Sorry. I'm just here to write."

Aaron gave her a smile-grimace and continued talking through the problem. He now rested his wounded left hand in his lap, and he had began to rock back and forth a bit from the pain. Haley drew no attention to the sight of him wiping his eyes and nose on his shoulder. However, she worried that anybody else who saw them would wonder why in the world math made him cry, especially when he had such a good friend to help him with it.

Today, math was an agonizing emotional experience. Haley couldn't wait to get home and, honestly, away from Aaron. Being with him on days like today made her feel irreversibly sad and hopeless for him.

Haley barely said a word during dinner. She kept watching everybody's hands while they ate. Jessica's hand reached for the butter dish, grabbed a knife and cut her bread, brushed a curl of blond hair from her face, manipulated her fork, caught a runaway pea from the tabletop, and rumpled up a napkin at her face. She didn't even think about every small movement her hand made. She made it look as easy as breathing. Everybody did. Using their hands for detailed, commonplace tasks came so naturally, they didn't even appreciate the painless freedom with which they moved.

Now Haley imagined Aaron having dinner. He probably couldn't even hold his utensils. She could see him wincing every time he reached for his glass. Could he even close his hands on each bite long enough to bring it to his mouth? What about cleaning up afterward? Could he carry his dishes, wash them? How long would it take him to brush his teeth, wash his face, and change his clothes? And what about going to bed? How could he rest his hands so they didn't hurt so much and keep him awake?

"I said, how was school, Haley?" Her mom's voice brought her back to the kitchen table.

Haley shrugged. "Fine."

It was an easy, neutral answer that she had gotten away with many times before. This time, her mom seemed to sense that all was not fine.

"Did you do well on your quiz?" her mom pressed.

"I'm sure I did." Haley caught herself stirring peas with her fork. Who does that?

"Anything you want to talk about?"

Haley shook her head, an adamant _no_.

Jessica gladly inserted herself into the silence and began telling everybody, in painful detail, about her uninteresting freshman life. Haley glared at her bread as she buttered it, having failed to silence her sister with a look. _Why doesn't she shut up already?_

The sisterly strife, spawned seemingly from nothing, intensified after dinner when Haley practically ordered Jessica to wash the dishes. Jessica reacted like her sister was a Soviet dictator.

"You can't tell me what to do. It's _your_ turn to wash the dishes, Haley! I did them last night."

"You're making things up. Just do it, Jessie."

"No, it's not my turn!"

"You always say that! _Just wash the stupid dishes!"_

Their dad was sitting in the parlor with a newspaper hiding his face, but his voice carried well into the kitchen. "Girls! That's enough. Split the dishes."

Haley looked down in shame. Why was she arguing with her sister about chores? It wasn't a big deal, really. She argued with Jessica all the time. But this was the first time she actually felt bad about it.

Somberly, Haley helped wash the dishes, and then she trudged upstairs to unwind in her room. She laid out her homework on her desk and looked through her tape collection for some good mood music. She remembered something and looked in her bag. Aaron had lent her one of his favorite tapes, the Beatles' _Red Album: Hits from 1962-1966_. Haley found the cassette, slipped it into the player, and with two fingers pressed down hard on the 'play' button.

From the player rose a cheerful slew of sweet but superficial love songs. Haley craved the superficial. She was desperate for simple joy and affection, unmarred by concerns that no child or adolescent should experience.

She sat in front of her homework, but she didn't even read the first problem. Instead, she daydreamed about pebbles hitting her window until she looked down and saw Aaron with a brand new Pontiac Trans Am, preferably red—Haley's favorite style in new cars. He would smile and beckon, and then she would sneak out her window and go for a drive with him. Maybe they would catch a late movie. They wouldn't have a care in the world.

Why couldn't he be that kind of boyfriend?

The Beatles continued to rock and roll unfazed. " _I want to hold your ha-a-a-a-nd!"_

Haley listened wistfully for a few seconds, then quickly stopped the tape.

With a sigh, she turned away from the homework on her desk and flopped onto her bed. She reached for a teen magazine from the lamp table and peeled it open. Supermodel Phoebe Cates had perfect skin, perfect hair, a perfect smile—every girl's envy. Thanks in part to her, Haley often dreamed of being a brunette.

Now, Ms. Cates looked plastic and uninspiring on the glossy pages. Haley's eyes glazed through a hyper article about the young model and rested on a colorful ad she had studied many times before. _Perfect skin in just ten days!_

She worried about acne, while Aaron worried about constant welts and bruises.

Haley threw the magazine aside and closed her eyes. In her frustration, she found herself again imagining the romance of her dreams. Almost instantly, she pushed those thoughts away, but she immediately missed them. She was left with the pain of anxiety and a feeling of being completely torn between emotions.

Could she continue being such a good friend to Aaron, such a close confidante? This was getting too hard for her, having to constantly worry about someone else's problems. As selfish as it sounded, she sincerely wished she had a normal boyfriend.

Other couples held hands all the time. Their affection was uncomplicated. They shared equally with each other, neither having to carry more weight in the relationship. A normal boyfriend might come to school with a natural smile and open arms. Haley might actually be able to hold his hand without worrying about putting pressure on terrible wounds. And she wouldn't be left at the end of every day to go home struggling privately with the effects of his injuries and feeling complicit in her inaction. She felt guilty for wishing for a normal boyfriend, but the thoughts would not go away.

What was so wrong about wishing for something so good? Why did she have to feel guilty about being a normal teen?

A light knock on the door raised Haley's head from the mattress. "Who is it?" she asked.

"It's your dad. Can I come in?"

Haley quickly sat up. "Okay."

Her dad stepped inside and turned her desk chair with one hand. He sat a few feet away, hands resting on his knees, gaze soft. He sighed. "Your mom thought I should check on you. You've been acting like something's bothering you."

Haley furrowed her brow and shrugged. "I'm okay. School can be stressful."

Her dad stared hard with his knowing eyes. "Are you really okay? What's going on, honey?"

Haley said nothing as she stared right back at her dad. He was big and strong. Intimidating. He could easily make Aaron's parents stop their cruelty forever.

In her mind, Haley began composing the words she would tell him: _My friend Aaron is getting beaten like a hated animal every single day. I'm sick of seeing him hide his wounds. I'm sick of seeing him cradle a broken bone or wince when he moves. I'm sick of doing nothing, and I need you to storm into his home, take his parents by the throat, and—_

She suddenly looked down. _Stop. You made Aaron a promise._

She didn't dare share the secret. She didn't know what kinds of threats Aaron's parents had made, but she did know that he absolutely insisted nobody discover the truth. She blinked back tears before facing her father again.

"I'm fine," she said. "Mom was right; I've been under a lot of stress with the last few quizzes, but I'm fine now."

She didn't know if her dad believed her. Finally, he patted her on the shoulder and got to his feet. "I love you, Haley."

"Love you, Dad."

"Goodnight."

She waited for him to close the door. Then she sprang to her feet and turned off the light so she didn't have to keep looking at the movie posters and photos of rock stars that were taped to her walls. She was an expert at drowning herself in meaningless and distracting entertainments. But that was all they were: distractions from the real problems of life that she had to face, one way or another.

Now she just wanted to think. She wanted to cry. She wanted to hold Aaron's hand and make it all better.

Haley wrapped her arms around her pillow and buried half her face in it so she could still see the window with one eye. She gazed out at the starry sky, wondering why people lived in a limitless, complex universe filled with solar systems, planets, continents, varied plants and animals, diverse communities—and all Aaron got to see of it was fist after fist after...

What was the point? Why did Aaron exist in this world just to get battered by those who should love him most? And what could Haley possibly do to make his existence any bit more bearable?

Tears soaked the pillowcase beneath Haley's face. She sniffled and closed her eyes. She wondered if Aaron was ever happy, if he saw any point to living, or if he would really rather die after all. What could come of his suffering? What could _possibly_ make his experiences less meaningless and perhaps even... worthwhile?

 _Dear Aaron, if I only could, I would take all the monsters away. I want to save you from the pain, but I don't know what to do. I'm sorry, so sorry..._

Haley muffled her sobs with her pillow. Hope was the only thing she could think of that might get Aaron through this. Did he have hope?

Whatever the case, Haley needed a moment to mourn the slaying of his innocence. She cried unabashedly, praying with all her might for hope. Hope for Aaron, and hope for her.

Nobody, especially not her parents, could know how upset being with her best friend made her. Aaron's burden of secrecy was Haley's burden too, an agonizing, crushingly heavy 24/7 burden.

Was this what love was supposed to be like? Could they get by on hope alone?


	16. Scene 16 -- New Recruit

_**Dear Readers:**_

 _ **I hope to write stories that interest you. However, I need your reviews to know if you are still enjoying these snippets. I don't mean to beg or demand reviews, but I need to know if you are losing interest in this story, or if you want it to keep going. I have plenty more ideas for scenes, but I'd like to know if anybody wants to read them. Thank you for reading so much so far. What do you think of it?**_

 _ **Your support makes writing worthwhile! Thanks so much!**_

 _ **-LTLS**_

 _ **Note: This scene may not be entirely consistent with my original story "Curtain Call," particularly how much Rossi knows about Hotch already. In the context of this scene, Rossi probably did not meet Hotch as a kid and is unaware of his past. And of course some things, especially FBI things, are a bit unrealistic here.**_

— _ **-**_

The new recruit assigned to SSA David Rossi's field office in Seattle had all the makings of a promising FBI agent. He was smart, attentive, great with a gun, and adept at analyzing crime scenes. He had impressive grades from the academy and a solid record in field training assignments. Rossi believed the new recruit had strong potential to make it into the Behavioral Analysis Unit as long as he kept his studies up.

There was only one problem: the recruit's future with the FBI was now dangling on the precipice of a single questionable incident. Because of his actions, most of his superiors believed he should be terminated immediately.

However, Rossi insisted on handling the issue directly before determining whether or not Internal Affairs needed to get involved. He was hopeful for the new agent, but at the same time, he worried that he was about to watch the man's career end before it began.

He waited for the knock on his office door. Rossi took a deep breath, sat up straighter, and called, "Come in!"

His recruit, Trainee Aaron Hotchner, walked into the room and shut the door. He was neatly dressed in business casual, no tie this time. Somehow he looked younger, more like an academy entrant, but world-weary at the same time. At Rossi's direction, he sat down. His face was entirely unreadable.

Rossi opened the complaint folder on his desk. "Aaron Hotchner, you are being investigated for your volatile behavior and mishandling of a critical interview. You have been recommended for psychological reevaluation and/or termination from the Bureau. Do you understand why I'm interviewing you?"

A faint nod. "Yes sir."

Rossi relaxed and folded his hands. "Look, I like you, Hotch. But that doesn't matter right now. To the Bureau, you're just a rash young recruit who is _this_ close to losing his career." He brought his fingertips close together to illustrate. "So I suggest you cooperate."

"Yes sir."

Rossi nodded. "Alright. Let's start by going over what happened."

—-

 _In two weeks, three college girls had been kidnapped, killed, and found meticulously buried beneath an office building utility room. A series of leads brought one suspect to the forefront: Ben Wilhelm, an occasional janitor with a record for theft. However, nobody could locate Ben. The FBI contacted his parents, and Agent Rossi went to interview them with his agent-in-training at his side._

 _Mr. and Mrs. Wilhelm lived in a trailer in an area known for selling meth. The couple slouched on an overstuffed, bursting leather sofa and shared a bottle of Corona between them. The man with patches of greasy whiskers on his weathered chin was reportedly Mrs. Wilhelm's fourth husband and Ben's second stepfather._

 _For the first half of the interview, the Wilhelms barely said a word, only speaking to affirm their utter ignorance of their son's whereabouts._

 _Hotch, normally so well-composed, seemed more uptight than usual. While Rossi focused his questions on finding Ben, Hotch kept coming back to the couple's relationship with their son. He asked very pointed questions about Ben's childhood, upbringing, and experiences as a youth. The answers were minimal but enough to keep Hotch going. Rossi figured he must be onto something, so he let the questions continue._

 _However, the younger man needed to tone down a bit. He sounded angry, and that was no way to crack an interview open._

" _How come you don't know where he is?" Hotch demanded. "Did he run away from you? Did you push him away?"_

 _Mrs. Wilhelm gave him an irritated glance and then took a gulp from the bottle._

" _You told me your son never behaved and that he did poorly in school. Can you tell me why?"_

 _Mr. Wilhelm shrugged. "Cuz the boy was an idiot, that's why. I say, good riddance; I hope he never turns up."_

 _Hotch was on the edge of the folding chair that sat opposite the adults slouching on the sofa. He leaned forward with a touch of aggression. "How did you treat him?"_

 _Mrs. Wilhelm casually flicked a speck of dirt from her sleeve. "Treated him like anybody would treat a child." She took another drink from the bottle._

 _Hotch's eyes flashed with anger. "Did you hurt him?"_

 _Rossi shot him a sideways glance. The woman looked up through glazed eyes but said nothing._

 _Hotch looked like he might spring to his feet. "I asked, did you hurt him? How often did you hit him?"_

 _The woman shrugged and picked up her bottle again._

 _Without warning, Hotch rose from his seat, grabbed the bottle, and set it forcefully down on the coffee table._

 _Rossi tensed. He had never seen Hotch act like this before, and there was no way of knowing what he might do next. He was going to grab her. He was going to hit her. Maybe they should leave now._

" _You sicko!" Hotch yelled at the woman. "Do you have any idea what you did to your son? How you made him feel? Are you surprised he's now a murder suspect?"_

 _Rossi quickly stood and seized his agent's arm. "Hotch..."_

" _Where is your son?" yelled Hotch. "Is he running from you? You have no idea what it takes to be parents, and I hope you rot in jail!"_

" _Hotch. Out. NOW!" Rossi tugged on his arm._

 _The Wilhelms exchanged a glance as the agents hurried out of the trailer and into the dusty daylight. Hotch turned away from his supervisor and ran his hands over his head._

 _Rossi crossed his arms. "What the heck has gotten into you?"_

 _Hotch faced him. "I'm sorry. I lost control."_

" _That's for sure! What's going on?"_

 _Hotch shook his head. "I don't know," he murmured. "But I think you should finish the interview."_

" _I think you're right. And Hotch, I can't let this go. You know that."_

" _Yes sir."_

 _Rossi then went back inside to repair the damage, leaving Hotch beside the black FBI car. Rossi didn't believe for a moment that nothing was wrong, personally, for Hotch. Unfortunately, the Wilhelms would no longer open up at all._

—

Rossi rested his hands on his desk. "Well?" he asked. "What were you thinking?"

Hotch sighed. "I wasn't thinking. I was looking at two adults who showed total apathy toward their son, and I watched them give that bottle more attention than they probably ever gave their child. Being in that home, seeing the conditions, I couldn't help getting angry."

Rossi leaned forward. "But _why_? Was it really so bad?"

"In that moment, I had to know. I had to find out."

"Find out what?"

"If they really treated Ben the way I thought they did."

Rossi frowned. "You could have found out by continuing to calmly interview them. Yes, they were frustrating, but every interviewee tends to be. Why did you lose control?"

"Maybe for the same reason I quit being a lawyer." Hotch avoided eye contact entirely. "I was tired of watching people get away with such cruelty, and when I felt like I wasn't doing enough to help, I panicked."

Rossi leaned back in his chair and sighed. He could guess where this all came from, but he wanted the recruit to tell the story. If Hotch was struggling with past trauma, he needed to deal with it right away.

"I see where you're coming from," said Rossi. "You got so angry because the case suddenly became personal for you. Let me ask you this: what made it personal?"

Hotch's fingers kept intertwining tighter. "The... the parents."

Rossi dipped his chin, nodding for him to go on.

But Hotch did not continue. He only stared down at his hands.

"Trainee Hotchner," said Rossi. "I need you to meet my eye."

Hotch looked up.

"If there is something in your life, however long ago, that you haven't dealt with, it's now or never," said Rossi. "I know you want to go on into the FBI. But right now, you're a liability. I can't send you in on investigations if there's a chance you'll blow up at subtle triggers. If you're not ready to confront your past and heal from it, I'm afraid I'll have to fail your psych eval, refer you to Internal Affairs, and hope to catch you at the laundromat sometime. Because I guarantee you, chance encounters will be your only remaining connection to the FBI."

Hotch shifted uncomfortably. His gaze had fallen again. "Alright," he said softly. "It was my stepfather. He had PTSD from the war. Beat me up pretty bad."

Rossi gave a knowing nod. "I'm sorry you went through that. Have you ever gotten help for this?"

"Professional help? No, sir. I haven't."

"Well, there's a place to start. I think you need to seek counselling. We'll have you back on your feet in no time."

Hotch nodded. Silent.

"Is there more?" asked Rossi.

Hotch barely glanced up from beneath his knit brows. "No sir."

"Alright, Hotch. You _can_ overcome the long-term effects, I'm sure, and then we can reconsider your recruitment status. Momentarily, we will have to keep you on probation while we further address your actions."

Another silent nod.

"One more thing. I had talked to the Wilhems before and done some studying on them. You know what I've learned? They did not abuse their son, at least not physically. If anything, they were overly permissive, never laid a hand on him, never corrected him in any way." Rossi shook his head. "And they wonder why he's a petty thief on the lam with bigger charges coming. Anyway, it's important to remember that profiling doesn't mean stereotyping, nor does it mean jumping to conclusions. I thought you knew that."

In fact, he _knew_ that Hotch knew that. There was more to the problem, perhaps, some deeper issue, which was somehow triggered during the interview. There was more that Hotch wasn't sharing.

—-

David Rossi had spent longer than he planned getting information from the receptionist and security guard at the law firm downtown. Finally, he was directed to the records room where he asked to see all the files on Aaron Hotchner's last court case.

There were two entire boxes of folders devoted to this case. Evidence of every kind, from interviews with classmates and neighbors to photos of everything in the house. Overwhelmed, Rossi began studying the case from beginning to end.

The defendant was a thirty-year-old single mother who let her twelve-year-old son starve to death after beating him with a cord "for failing his math exam." The conviction was successful, and the mother was sentenced to serve life in prison without parole.

In the back of the first case file were photographs of the murdered boy. Rossi cringed and closed the folder.

He found a yellow sticky note on the back of a file. The cursive note read: "They can't possibly acquit. Now give the case a rest and come home. -Haley."

This case was an open-and-shut conviction loaded with clear-cut evidence and tell-all testimonies. A prosecutor's dream. But Hotch had obsessed over it, fought excessively to ensure its conviction, lost sleep and lost time with his wife. The case had drained him, probably haunted him. And in the end, when the verdict buried the defendant behind bars, Hotch had irrationally quit his job.

Rossi looked again at the pages of the autopsy report and the photos of the boy right after he was found. The report mentioned a multitude of half-healed injuries that indicated a history of abuse. The boy looked emaciated and sickly, sunken eyes staring lifeless beneath a snatch of sandy hair. He was found in filthy shorts and a never-washed orange T-shirt with Garfield peeling off the front. Nothing on his feet and nothing to guard from the cold. He was about the size of an eight-year-old, but with every bone showing beneath thin, pale skin.

It was a horrendous case, to be sure. Rossi had to sit down and take a deep breath to process what he was seeing. As he skimmed over the police report, he saw a phrase circled in red ink: "could have been saved." If just one person had spoken up, if just one investigation had followed through, if anybody had acted sooner. But nobody did.

Now the conviction really did seem like a hollow stamp of so-called justice. But enough to make a successful lawyer change careers?

—-

Rossi gestured for Hotch to have a seat on the other side of his desk. "Have you finished your memo?"

"Nearly finished, sir."

Rossi cleared his throat. "I'm going to get straight to the point, so you'll have to forgive me for being so blunt."

Hotch arched his eyebrows.

"The point is, you cannot continue as an agent if you still refuse to face your past. You told me it was your stepfather who abused you, but I believe there was someone else. I did some investigating, and everything points to another conclusion." Rossi paused, giving Hotch the chance to speak up. When he was met with silence, he finished the thought: "Your mother, Hotch."

Hotch planted his elbow on the desk and pressed his fist to his lips. He shook his head.

"It wasn't your stepfather..."

"Yes, it was." Hotch hesitated, and his downcast eyes seemed to become glassy. "It was him _and_ Mom."

Rossi took a second to let this sink in. "That must have been terrible. But Hotch, why didn't you tell me the whole truth before? Are you ashamed?"

At very least he was extremely uncomfortable. Hotch seemed to realize he could not avoid the questions, so he sighed and gave in. "She was 5 foot 1, very slim, and generally slow. And she beat me out of my mind more times than I could count. I could have stopped her. I didn't."

"Did you really believe I would think any less of you if I knew this?"

"Do you, sir?"

Rossi stifled a bigger outburst. "Don't be ridiculous! She was a woman, you were a boy, who cares? I don't care if she was four feet tall; she hurt you, and you didn't stop her because she was your mother. I don't look down on your for being a victim. And I certainly hope you don't look down on yourself."

Dead silence.

"Do you, Hotch?"

"It's very difficult, sir." Hotch's voice had never sounded smaller.

"Hotch, look at me."

The younger man had tears in his eyes.

"Something terrible happened to you, and it shouldn't define you," said Rossi. "But if you continue to blame yourself, it _will_ define your whole life."

Hotch stared into space, and Rossi couldn't be sure how well he was listening. Then the younger man began speaking in a very distant voice. "Some days my mother didn't drink so much. She would make meals on time and let me help out in the kitchen. She liked to play cards with me on those nights, but I always made sure to let her win. It was fragile. Another day she'd turn around, knock me down, and whip out my father's old belt..."

Rossi nodded understandingly, wincing on the inside.

"And I..." Hotch wiped his eyes. "I just let her. I thought that maybe if I didn't give her any reason to hate me more, she would eventually stop hurting me and then welcome me back into the family. But around my stepfather, she only became more insane. Together, they taught me how easily a family can destroy itself. And that is what I see behind every murder and every case we look at— families destroyed from within, though not always in the same way."

"Thinking like that might make this job even harder to handle," said Rossi gently.

"Maybe so, but now I recognize that. I promise you, Agent Rossi, I will work through these problems. I will not let my past be a burden, but a tool. I want to bring my parents to justice. If not my parents themselves, the destruction they stood for, in whatever form I find it. If that means I have to take control of my thoughts and deal with the memories, I will do that."

Rossi nodded, eying the young man, thinking it over. Hotch finally met his eye and held his stare. Any sign of weakness had fled his gaze, and his stare actually carried an intimidating strength.

Rossi took a deep breath. "I'm glad to hear it, Hotch. For your sake, I hope you can pull yourself together. I know you have a lot to give if you really work at it."

"I hope so, sir."

"My superiors will want to talk with you as well," said Rossi, "and they'll decide if the complaint against you will go beyond them. For now, I suggest you finish your memo and prepare yourself in case they decide to terminate you."

"Yes sir."

"By the way, you're not allowed back on the case, at least until your probation is over, but I wanted to let you know we found Wilhelm." Rossi opened another file. "He was staying at a biker's lodge just out of town."

"Ben Wilhelm is not our unsub," Hotch stated flatly.

Rossi looked up. Hotch made the statement like it was inarguable truth. "Go on," Rossi urged him.

Hotch cleared his throat. "We profiled an organized killer. A man with a relatively stable childhood and the ability to maintain a social life despite his sociopathy. He's cunning; nobody would suspect anything wrong with him. But Ben Wilhelm is unstable, asocial, and isolated. Low social status. Highly disorganized background. I know that he was allegedly seen with each victim before they disappeared, but he doesn't fit the profile."

Rossi could see where this was going, but he wanted to make his recruit think everything through. "What if he is in a partnership?"

Hotch shook his head. "The college students were victimized by a power assertive offender, a type that exhibits a great deal of selfishness. It's almost impossible that the killer could have worked together with someone else."

Rossi stroked his chin. "What if the unsub used Wilhelm to bring the girls to him? He would still be in control that way."

"I doubt it, Sir. If what you say is true, that Wilhelm's parents let him get away with everything, he may have a self-entitled attitude that would prevent him from working for an authority who doesn't even let him take part in the ultimate crime itself. And though Wilhelm may have a self-centered mindset that fits the MO, he doesn't have a background that suggests he is intelligent or organized enough to pull off this kind of crime on his own."

Rossi didn't know what to say. He started to smile.

Hotch looked down. "Plus he's asocial," he went on. "Whereas our unsub has the social skills to blend into society. How else would he have access to such low-risk victims in a low-risk environment?"

"You know what, Hotch?" Rossi closed the complaint folder and leaned back. "I think you're absolutely right."

—

The next day, Agent Rossi walked out of a meeting with his superiors. Immediately, he went to find Hotch in the waiting area outside the main offices.

Hotch was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is Hotchner?" Rossi asked the receptionist who sat in front of a painted FBI seal on the far wall.

"He said he was going for a walk down the block ten minutes ago."

Rossi headed outside and walked briskly up the street. The wind ruffled his hair and his gray sports jacket as he hurried along. He looked up and down every street and every alley for any sign of his recruit.

He spotted a dark-haired man standing in a churchyard across the street. Rossi looked both ways and then headed over the crosswalk. As he let himself through the cemetery gate, the man looked up at him for no more than a second.

Rossi slowly crossed the grassy field and passed a sprinkler that _tsk-tsk-tsk_ -ed a wide arc past his knees. Large bunches of flowers bloomed at every side. Every petal trembled in the wind and reached skyward as if longing to let go and fly after the departed souls.

Hotch stood in a patch of grass at the far end of the churchyard. Rossi came up beside him and looked down at the short headstone which was engraved with a deathdate but no birthdate. A block-letter inscription read: _Here lies a boy whose name is only known in Heaven._

Hotch nodded toward the stone. "We couldn't even figure out his name. His mother wouldn't tell us, and we found no record of his birth or even his existence. It's like he never lived."

Rossi gazed somberly at the stone, remembering the terrible photos he found in the former prosecutor's folders. "We can't save everyone, Hotch. You have to realize that."

Hotch closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

"We do not have an easy job," said Rossi. "The one thing that will lead to more mistakes is your emotions. That's why you can't let them get involved in any case. Nothing is personal. You're here to help, and at the end of the day, commiserate, but on the job, you cannot be ruled by your emotions."

"Yes, sir. I know that now."

Rossi folded his hands and looked down again. "I am sorry about this boy, and I'm sorry about all that has happened to you. I wish I could have done more."

Hotch nodded, then he softly spoke. "My mother once made me starve for about a week after I was already sick and wounded. I know what it feels like to no longer exist in the real world, and to think your only purpose is to slowly succumb to the pain. I knew I would die... so why didn't I?"

"Maybe so that you would have a chance to fight for others trapped with a similar fate."

With that, Rossi placed a gentle hand on his recruit's shoulder.

"Welcome to the FBI, Agent Hotchner."

—

 _ **Sorry if Rossi came across a little flat as a character in this chapter. I'm afraid I'm not too good at writing him. Anyway, I hope you liked this scene. Please review! Thanks! :)**_

 _ **If I find out that people are still interested in this story, I'll have the next chapter posted soon! I've been working on it for a long time.**_


	17. Scene 17 -- Basement Time Log

_**Thank you for the amazing reviews! You have no idea how encouraging they are to me. So encouraging I decided to finish and post another scene already! So here is a gift to my wonderful and loyal readers.**_

 _ **This chapter describes what happened in the basement during "The Absence" chapter of my story "Curtain Call." Aaron just ran away from home in an attempt to save himself and Sean, but his mother caught him and locked him in the basement as punishment. The only difference from my story is that Aaron is not handcuffed in this version. That detail just made some things too impossible in this scene, so I changed it.**_

— _ **-**_

10:00 PM — _There is no way out. I feel like a scrap of bread being saved in the cupboard for later. Out of sight and out of reach, safe maybe, until she decides to come back for me. Then it's all over._

Aaron had spent much of his energy trying every door and window without success. For the first several hours, he planned his escape. He devised new plans with every object he found, contemplating how he could open the door with a coil of broken garden hose, the lid of a detergent bottle, or a handful of clothespins. Whatever he tried, he could not force the lock.

After a while, he abandoned the door and stood on a stack of boxes to reach the window. He tried to pry the pane open with an old dress shoe. Failing at that, Aaron took a discarded spoon and began hacking at the plaster, hoping to dig around the window frame. He only succeeded in chipping off some paint.

Nothing worked. He kicked the wall and marched away in defeat.

 _Don't act like a child. Don't fret._

Mom had the keys. She would let him out, when she was ready. Until then, he had to occupy his mind.

Aaron sat down on an overturned laundry basket and began counting in his head. When he reached three hundred forty-seven, he started miscounting and losing focus. He had hoped Mom would let him out in time for dinner, but that was an unrealistic hope. Aaron had been nauseously hungry before, but this time the pain was doubled by anxiety. What if Charles came back early from the hospital? What if Mother just handed the baby to him?

The worry did nothing to help. Aaron lay down on his side, holding his grumbling stomach. He was used to sleeping on a few rags on the concrete, but now he felt colder than usual. He waited nervously for Mother to come downstairs and finish up with him. Only then might he have any chance of dinner.

He waited until his eyes began closing. Soon the basement disappeared, and nightmarish sleep overcame him.

— — —

7:00 AM — _It's time to get ready for school. I think we're studying microscopy today. But I'm... still locked in. Guess I'll study the mass of ants behind the washing machine instead. They're small..._

He only looked at the ants for a short time. A wild idea overtook him, and he reached out to grab one of the scrambling black insects. The rest scattered at the disturbance. Aaron pinched the ant and brought it to his lips, but it squirmed free and circled around his fingers. Aaron cupped his other hand around it; it crawled between his thumb and pointer. He placed his mouth over the side of his hand and captured the ant underneath his tongue. It didn't have much taste, and it popped softly between his teeth. Swallowing, he wondered how much sustenance something so tiny could provide.

The other ants were gone. _So much for microscopy. Maybe I could get a C, at least?_

Aaron pulled himself to his feet and walked over to the boxes he had stacked to reach the window. He climbed onto a box and stood on his toes to peer through a crack at the top of the window. He could just make out the morning light. It smelled like a beautiful day.

He remembered another beautiful day when he sat alone during lunch, like usual, and then Haley came up and offered to help him find a school club to join. Aaron was starved of friends. Those once closest to him had quietly drifted away when his father died to avoid the emotional baggage. Those he knew now suspected his painful home life and didn't care or were too afraid to get involved. But Haley insisted it was still possible to make some friends.

They stood in the student resources office, going through a list of clubs with a counsellor. Most of them, such as break dancing club or Bring Back the Pet Rocks club, didn't spark the faintest interest. But when the counsellor mentioned the swim team, Aaron perked up without thinking. Of course, Haley was thinking for him.

"No, Aaron doesn't want to join the swim team," she said, too quickly. She put a hand to her mouth, too late. She glanced over at Aaron. "That is, he has said..."

"Yeah, that's right," Aaron sighed. "Swimming's not for me."

The truth was, he missed swimming just like he missed so many other normal activities. But people would get suspicious if he insisted on coming to the pool in long pants and a shirt.

In the end, the only club that appealed to Aaron (and that he could safely join without being nagged by suspicions) was the baseball team. Aaron met some of the team members that day, and he got a quick rundown of the game's rules.

Walking with Haley and Jessica during a break in tryouts, Aaron gazed at a wide lake that settled just outside the school grounds. He crouched beside the water and watched it stir in the breeze. He hadn't realized until today how much he missed running outside in his swim trunks and diving farther than anyone else could into deep water. He could tread water for such a long time and hold his breath underwater for record lengths. "Wouldn't it be cool," he once asked his dad, "if you could shoot a gun underwater? Do you think that's possible?"

Dad had laughed. "Impossible... for anyone but you!"

It was a silly, random idea. Aaron used to want to do everything in the water. Ball games, races, competitions, combat. It was exhilarating.

Now, his parents had stolen from him the simple joy of swimming.

As Aaron reflected on his former favorite pastime, Jessica gasped in surprise behind him. The wind had taken a lustier turn and swept her ball cap right off her head. Aaron watched the red hat sail in a drunken curve that ended with a soft splash in the middle of the lake. While Jessica grumbled over her loss, Aaron started to grin.

"I'll get it," he announced.

"But Aaron..." Haley held up a hand. "It's very cold, I'm sure."

Aaron wasn't fazed. He took a few steps backwards, then broke into a run toward the lake. The girls just stared as he leapt over the thick reeds and splashed, fully clothed, into the lake.

First he sank rapidly to the bottom. Bubbles and ribbons of sunlight rippled around him as he let his weight carry him through the water. When he reached the bottom, he used his legs to push off the pebbles and propel himself back to the surface. As he broke the surface into the blinding glare of the sun, he realized that Haley hadn't been kidding. The lake was easily below zero degrees.

"It's COLD!" he yelled, feeling ice cement every bone. He shook and struggled to take deep breaths.

The girls at the bank were laughing. Aaron had jumped right in, a fearless macho figure, and now he trembled as the frigid reality hit.

But the longer he treaded water, the more he warmed up. All that mattered was that he was surrounded by water, and a beautiful girl with her sister stood waiting to be impressed. Aaron looked back at them, smiled broadly, and began swimming toward the red hat floating in the middle of the lake.

Unless his imagination fooled him, the sisters were actually cheering him on. Aaron snatched the hat, then turned to swim back to shore. He climbed out of the lake with his clothes hanging in wet bags and his hair dripping nonstop into his face. He shivered so hard his teeth clanked together.

"Got it," he said, proudly presenting the hat.

Jessica thanked him and laughed. Haley bundled her own coat around him. Aaron felt so happy to have some very real friends who didn't mind when he made a total fool of himself.

In all honesty, if he had known how cold the water really was, he probably wouldn't have submerged himself so eagerly. But it was worth it anyway.

Aaron opened his eyes. The lake was gone. The Brooks were gone. The cold walls and gray ceiling of the basement had blocked them out. Pulled from his thoughts, Aaron remembered his current predicament and sighed. What wouldn't he give to be swimming free right now, even if he got hypothermia.

He tried to estimate the length of his confinement. How soon until Mother's anger simmered down and she gave him a second chance? Judging by her enraged mood swings yesterday, he guessed it would be a while. Maybe another hour or two. He could survive that, right?

— — —

12:00 PM — _I've never known it was possible to be so hungry. I can smell potato soup cooking upstairs. I hope she'll forgive me soon. Surely she'll come down any minute, ready to listen to my side and offer me food. Real food. She'll come soon, I'm sure._

How could he think she would be so forgiving? He did everything wrong. He probably deserved to starve in her basement.

It was easy to think back and fixate on only one common memory: the sharp smack of leather or cord and the shocks of radiating hot pain, brought on by his own idiocies. Aaron winced. It hurt right now. He was supposed to be regularly treating his wounds, but he had no ointment, no nurse, and no way to check them. Maybe if he wasn't such a rabble-rouser, he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

He used to struggle a lot more when she came at him. He would hold his arms out straight in front of him, keeping her at bay, until she kicked him back into the wall and he had nowhere else to go. He grabbed her sleeve sometimes, or her shoulder, trying to hold her back. Still, she always ended up slamming him onto the floor, right where she wanted him. Though he scooted across the floor in an arc, she maintained a firm grip on his hair and still managed to catch up with the rest of him. Usually he lost a sock in the process of trying to crawl away, and his shirt got pulled up or twisted around against the carpet as they grappled. The harder he struggled, the more violent Mother became.

It didn't take long for his struggles to cease as he accepted his fate. He had nothing left to do but protect his chest and head, and maybe extend one hand in a vain attempt to ward off the blows. Mother had him right where she wanted him. She always did. Resisting never ended well.

So why did he keep resisting her? Why couldn't he just accept her correction and get on with his life? If he hadn't insisted on fighting back, he would be getting lunch now.

Aaron sat hunched on the floor, hugging his knees. A thousand self-deprecating thoughts swirled around his head. Why was he such an idiot?

 _Wait. Aaron, what are you thinking? You know why you fought back. You did it to protect Sean!_

Aaron took a deep breath. When he allowed himself to follow a train of guilty thoughts, he started to lose hope and forget his purpose. He had to force himself to stop thinking that way. Getting fed was not worth letting Charles take Sean away, he reminded himself.

Desperate to distract himself, Aaron got up and began looking through the boxes of his father's possessions that he had stored away beside the laundry machines. He found full notebooks, photo albums, and items from the war, including Dad's old metal-bound Army Bible. Aaron opened the book to Psalm 140 and felt calmed as he read the relatable prayer for deliverance from violent evildoers.

— — —

8:00 PM — _Something's wrong. Sean isn't here, and I can't be sure he's getting put to bed. Where's the baby? I need to feed him, rock him, lay him down for the night. If I don't do it, I don't know if anybody will!_

After pacing uselessly for a while, Aaron felt the exhaustion take hold. But when he lay down on his side, he could not relax. He kept thinking about what he would do as soon as he got out of here.

First he would leap for joy and kiss the sky. Then he would lift Sean out of his crib and keep anybody from taking him. He would have a plan this time, a plan to take the baby far from harm. He would take him to the bus depot downtown, beg for a ticket from compassionate strangers, ride into Texas where he would get a job and save up enough to purchase a plane ticket, then fly into Canada where he would hide out with the baby until he found a ship to stowaway on, after which he would start a new life off the grid in Iceland.

A perfect plan.

Aaron scoffed at himself. Who was he kidding?

He grew tired of gazing at cracks in the wall and rusty pipes bound here and there with tape. He began reading one of his dad's handwritten memoirs, amazed by the colorful descriptions of the Army regiment, the base in Vietnam, and the vivid battles that filled the dark jungles with casualties. He imagined his father telling him these stories, and he finally began to get comfortable.

It was almost bedtime. Aaron would have told Sean a story he hadn't heard before, one about his father entering a wrestling match, realizing he would lose, and putting on a good show anyway. It was a good story.

Aaron went to sleep humming dissonantly. He couldn't help it. The pain was starting to take hold of his mind.

— — —

3:00 AM — _Sean is crying. I can hear him clearly, even here. I need to get him. But when I get up, I double over and fall on my face. My insides hurt so much. Someone's taking a fireman's axe to my midsection, hacking away. I can't go back to sleep with pain like this._

Aaron's dreams the rest of the night were discolored, distorted, and frightening.

— — —

6:00 AM — _I can smell porridge from here. I have to ignore the pain so I can clean myself up. Run my head under the faucet. Scrub myself with the crumbling soap bar. Change out of these rags. I found some semi-clean clothes balled up in the washing machine, still soaking, so I hung them on a shelf to dry. This shirt is missing a button. Oh, two buttons. She won't notice, I'll bet. Now I've gotta comb my hair, with my fingers, I guess. I can't look like a slob—or an urchin—when she comes to get me. She'll see that I'm willing to be her obedient son now. I don't regret what I did for Sean, but I have to make her believe I am truly penitent. It's the only way I might get out of here._

Now that he was clean and dressed, Aaron sat on a box and waited. He pictured the basement door opening, Mom walking down into the dimly lit tomb, and three beautiful words escaping her lips: _I forgive you_.

He waited. An hour passed.

He quietly recited a set of rules Mom had written for him when he was seven: Mommy's Rules for Good Little Boys. "Rule #1: Listen to your mother. Rule #2: Obey your mother. Rule #3: Clean up your own messes. Rule #4..."

If he followed every rule, only then would he be good enough for her. Or had she forgotten her own orders?

Aaron couldn't remember much past Rule #12, so he stopped reciting. He leaned against the wall beside the steps and began tapping on a copper pipe. "Please let me out," he called. "Mom, I'm sorry! You have to forgive me."

 _Tap. Tap. Tap._

Maybe she would get so annoyed she would let him out just to make him stop. But Aaron didn't hear even a hint of movement from anybody upstairs.

"Are you up there? Are you listening? Mom? I'm sorry!"

He took a deep breath to dissipate the panic that threatened to choke him. He tapped harder on the pipe.

"I'm still here! Don't forget me!"

More time passed without the slightest response. Aaron slammed his fists into the walls.

"Let me out, you monster!"

He could only beat the wall for a minute before the sides of his hands ached too much. He hung his head and ran his hands through his dark hair. Once he finally collected himself, he returned to tapping on the pipe.

 _12:00 PM._ He was still tapping on the pipe. Now he was hoarse.

He raised his face toward the ceiling and blinked back tears. "Mommy... _please_."

She didn't hear. She didn't care. No rules could appease her, no amount of obedience could make her listen. There was _nothing_ Aaron could do.

Resigned, he started humming the song that used to be Mother's favorite: "Bridge Over Troubled Water." She used to sing that song while she made his dinner, but he hadn't heard it in years. He couldn't even remember the words.

— — —

9:00 PM — _I don't know if I can stand unsupported, but I want to see the stars tonight. The smells of fast food leak through the vent, and I want to get far away from it so I don't feel like throwing up from hunger. As I decide how to sneak a peek at the stars, I'm not too worried about getting out of here. She'll come and get me soon. She has to._

Aaron climbed on top of a box, leaned against the wall, and peered through the glass over the top of the board that had been wedged into the window well. He could barely make out a corner of the sky.

" _Look at the stars, Aaron."_

 _He reached out and tried to grab one, but his tiny hand came back empty._

 _Mother hugged him in her lap. "My love for you is bigger than the whole sky."_

 _He strained his neck trying to see every corner of the deep, sparkling canvas. Mother's head blocked out a part of his view. He smiled up at her._

" _What do you mean?"_

" _I mean... I love you so much."_

 _Aaron stared at the stars, wondering if the sky ever ended._

The tiny corner that was visible looked so beautiful, but so far away. Aaron soon turned away from it. It was again time for bed, and his surroundings still hadn't changed.

Mother used to make him blow his nose before bed. Aaron used to wonder why. Didn't she know that nose-picking made for an excellent pastime when his preschooler self had nothing else to do but gaze at the shadows in his room?

The point was, she wouldn't let him go to bed unless he had forcefully emptied his nose into the tissue she cupped over his face. It was one of his daily rituals, and somehow it made her happy. So did washing his face, brushing his teeth, and cleaning his room. He was sure to earn a hug, at very least, if he cleaned himself up and put away every toy. She might even give him a cookie if he did a good job.

Aaron knelt in front of the faucet that poked out of the wall in the cupboard-like bathroom in the corner. He had been gnawing on a rough strip of cloth that might have once been a sock, just to occupy his teeth and maybe deceive his hunger into thinking it was not forgotten. Now he reluctantly set the soggy rag aside and rinsed the threads from his teeth. He splashed some cold water on his face and rubbed away sweat with his fingertips. His forehead felt extra warm, and he felt more tired than usual, but he continued his task until he was sure his teeth and face were spotless.

Aaron then staggered back to the middle of the basement and crouched to pick up some scattered rags and papers. He put the items away, stacked books, boxed photos. Soon everything was in place.

Finally, he blew his nose on a scrap of newspaper. He wadded up the scrap and dropped it on top of an already overflowing trash can, then surveyed the room for anything out of place. Now he and his room were all clean, ready for bed.

He laid out another layer of rags on the floor by the washing machine and lay down on his side with his knees brought up to his chest. The cold hurt almost as much as the hunger, so he pulled a ragged T-shirt and a few torn squares of fabric over his arms and shoulder. He shivered as he clenched fistfulls of cloth under his chin. His stomach felt like a thin rag being wrung out so tightly, almost to the point of tearing. His thoughts were fuzzy. Despite the cold, his face and back were burning up. At least he had done everything he was supposed to do. That much was in his control.

" _I put everything away, Mommy, and I blew my nose."_

" _Did you wash your face? Behind your ears too?"_

" _Yep! And I cleaned my teeth. See?"_

" _Then I don't suppose you want this snack before bed..."_

" _Daddy says you spoil me."_

" _Then don't tell him. Here, eat up quickly."_

Aaron reached for the cookie, or banana, or fig newton, or whatever delicacy his mother felt kind enough to offer after all his hard work. His hand closed on thin air. He stared, confused, in too much pain to comprehend the disappearance of his imaginings. If he reached far enough, if he concentrated hard enough, he would find _something_ to eat. Anything.

He eventually passed out with his knuckles in his mouth.

— — —

1:00 AM — _AAUGH!_

Aaron awoke suddenly to a sharp, pinching sensation on his toe. His right shoe had a gaping hole where the sole no longer met the leather, and his exposed toes had gotten used to feeling every bit of the elements. But this was different. This was... _wrong_.

Reflexively, he kicked his foot against the pinching. He felt his heel connect with something soft. He heard a faint squeal, a light thud, and a quick scamper of tiny nails. He sat up and reached for his foot, feeling a sense of dread that something living had tried to nibble on him.

He reached for the flashlight beside the rags and shone the beam around the floor. His eyes didn't adjust at first, and they were still foggy from sleep. But he noticed when the light reflected off a pair of tiny, beady eyes, and a little ball of fur scrambled out of view, swinging a whiplike tail behind it. Aaron tried not to retch. He could still feel the rat's incisors against his toe.

Frantic, Aaron gathered up his rags and climbed on top of the washing machine. There he sat the rest of the night, shaking from coldness and exhaustion, and aiming a flashlight into the shadows every now and then to watch for a second wave of attackers.

He began to feel miserable about losing the rat. Though it probably carried a million diseases and wanted to snack on him, he wished he had been fast enough to catch it. He would have devoured it like a chicken drumstick, not caring about anything besides FOOD!

But he was being unrealistic. He was too tired, too weak to actually make a successfully hunt. He had been reduced to a quivering piece of wounded prey, easy game for every hungry force. He didn't even have the strength to overpower a mere rat, so he had no choice but to huddle defensively out of reach. When he finally fell back asleep with his chin to his chest and his forehead on his knees, his dreams made him feel even sicker.

— — —

7:00 AM — _I'm thinking about chicken pot pie. Corn dogs smothered with ketchup. Cheesy, sauce-soaked lasagna. Greasy chicken legs by the bucket. I can barely breathe._

 _She's not coming back, is she?_

Aaron spent much of the morning clutching his stomach on the floor. His chin rested on the concrete, and he occasionally reached out to roll a glass marble back and forth in front of his face. He was drooling.

 _Get up, Aaron. Move around. You're not dead yet._

Everything shook as he stood. His vision reeled, and he caught himself on a metal shelf loaded with Christmas decorations. Where did these come from? Haven't seen them in ages... Is this wreath made from real leaves? Can I eat them?

Aaron bent forward to spit out the fake pine needles made of green plastic. His mouth tasted sour and angry, like his stomach felt. Desperate. Resentful. Unfathomably hungry.

But now another pain was forcing its way to the front of his consciousness. Every wound he had borne announced itself loudly and fiercely. Nothing seemed to be healing. Instead, his wounds felt sore and very warm. Some hurt more than they did when he received them.

Aaron stumbled to the closet-sized bathroom in the corner. He looked at his pale reflection in the stained square of glass above the basin-less faucet that dripped over a rusty drain on the floor. He looked like he belonged in a morgue.

Aaron raised his shirt, turned around, and peered over his shoulder at the reflection of his back. Every wound—there were too many to count—looked fiery red and inflamed. One long, swollen red cut spanning from the top of his right shoulder to the middle of his spine bothered him the most. He could feel it no matter how little he moved. This was surrounded by more raised marks and red lines than a tiger's stripes. All of this chimed in to create a seething chorus of red-hot pain.

Seeing the damage made it hurt even more. It looked and felt so terrible, Aaron suddenly wanted to cry. But his eyes were too dry.

What could he do about a thousand infections? How could he survive with no food, no warmth, and no treatment?

Living was a gamble now. Aaron decided to make the most of his last days on Earth. He returned to the boxes beside the machines and set out to read every one of his dad's memoirs, stories, and essays. Inspired by the eloquent writing, Aaron took a scrap of brown paper from the trash and began writing his last thoughts with a stub of charcoal. He wrote about his love for Haley, his concerns for Sean, and his longing to see his father again. When he had addressed everything important, he began writing about crime itself and how much he wished he could do something to fight it. When he ran out of thoughts to write, he relaxed and read Psalm 141.

— — —

1:00 PM — _Miraculously, I can sit up straight now without pain. My best guess is that my stomach forgot what food is like and stopped aching for more. The pain is more like a knotted, heavy lump now. My injuries, however, hurt more than I ever thought possible._

 _How did the temperature change so much?_ Aaron wondered as he stood panting against the washing machine. Both hands braced himself on the smooth white machine, but now his palms felt slippery. Aaron withdrew his hands and saw that he had left sweaty handprints on the machine. He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans, but they felt as hot as before. His forehead burned too. Aaron wiped it with his sleeve.

Somehow, he didn't know how, the temperature in the basement had rocketed upward into a very painful zone of discomfort. Aaron felt so hot, he couldn't sit still. It was like sitting in an oven. Convection bake. Highest settings.

Now the air wouldn't move. The air was like a solid block molded around his slumped body. He used every muscle in his chest, and his arms, to pull in a single gasp of air.

 _Open... window..._

Aaron found a metal can of nails and after several weary blows, cracked the glass in the lower corner of the window. He stood on a box and sucked in the fresh air, but he still felt much too hot.

In a matter of hours, the room had turned deathly cold. It was as if every particle of air in the basement gradually froze, and Aaron had to breathe invisible ice crystals. He patted his face, trying to warm it. He couldn't even feel his thin cheeks now that his fingers had become numb with cold.

Aaron put his grimy fingers inside his mouth until some feeling returned. He pulled his arms out of his sleeves and crossed them over his chest underneath his shirt. His arms felt like cold water across his body. He curled himself in half, chin to his knees, and then pulled his collar up over his face. If he stopped moving, he feared he might freeze to death. But moving hurt more than anything; the slightest twitch reminded him of every hot, stinging wound on his body.

Most uncomfortable of all, Aaron again broken into a heavy sweat despite the cold. He shivered violently, but at the same time his sweat soaked his shirt. He felt so sick he wanted to just throw up, and then maybe sleep for a year.

— — —

EVENING — _The numbers on the clock no longer make sense. I can't focus on something so high on the wall for so long. My eyes blur up and my head droops. I don't know why I've been so tired all day._

Aaron fought to remain sitting on a wooden crate. His head swayed a little and his limbs felt like dead, heavy branches. He struggled to read Psalm 142, but the words started blurring.

He felt a fever in his head and a fire in his back. Between the two, and with the added discomfort of his hollow gut, he could barely form a coherent thought.

 _That's just what Mom wants. She wants me to lose my mind._

So Aaron forced himself to focus. He tried to remember who he was and what had happened.

"My name is Aaron Ellis Hotchner," he muttered, as much to remind himself as to keep his brain active. "My brother's name is Sean. I'm going to grow up and be a prosecutor. My dad was a prosecutor..."

 _My dad. Where is he now?_

Mind floating on a high fever, Aaron quietly began singing his father's favorite song under his breath: "First to fight for the right, and to build the Nation's might..." He leaned forward to cough dryly into his sleeve. "... and the Army goes rolling along."

He passed out, falling from his perch on the crate and landing on his side in the rags.

— — —

MORNING? — _Time is blending together. The lighting never changes. I feel as numb and hollow as before, and I don't know if minutes or years have passed._

Aaron turned over to his other side and groaned. The thought that he was really facing the end knocked on his skull. He couldn't sit up without his head strongly spinning and nausea sweeping his insides.

 _I'm going to survive this. I'll just rest a little... and I'll be fine._

He no longer believed himself. His wounds felt like scalding irons. His face would not stop sweating. He shook from the cold, but he felt too hot to cover himself. He wiped his face with a rag every now and then, but even that simple action ceased when the rag started to feel like a twenty pound weight. Now he just lay there, hands curled under his face, watching spots and swirls of light pop around the cloudy room.

 _I'm just resting. Just resting._

— — —

 _I don't know what time it is or where I am or why I'm here._

Aaron finished reading Psalm 143 and 144 through heavy, blurry eyes. Unable to go on, he wrapped his arms around the book in a metal case and hugged it to his chest. He lay there on his side against the far wall, taking each breath in long, shaky drags.

He could have had a great life with Haley. He tried to put together in his mind what the wedding would look like. Churchbells, a choir singing like angels, rose petals scattered down the aisle. Haley walking toward him in a dress so clean and white it nearly glowed. Haley's parents crying. The warm, slender hands resting in Aaron's. Shining, golden rings on their fingers. The sweet, honey bliss of Haley's soft lips on his. _To hold and to keep, in sickness and in health... Till death do we part._

A pretty little house, like an old cottage, tucked away in Virginia's most peaceful countryside. Knee-high children running wild. What were their names? There were so many possibilities.

Grandkids, Thanksgiving visits, quiet afternoons beside the clock. The comfort of Haley's presence, even as his clock wound down and his breath shortened. Flying peacefully away in his sleep, content, having lived a full and wonderful life. What could have been, what could have been.

 _I think I'm ready to go now._

— — —

 _Everything is dark. I can't get up. But I'm no longer afraid. I feel so peaceful. I've been thinking about Heaven. It's the only thought I can hold onto that still makes sense. I feel no pain. I feel happy. So happy. It's almost over, and soon I'll be with my Savior. I'm ready to go. I'm ready to leave this life behind._

 _Will there be singing? Will there be angels and magnificent beauty? And my father. Will he be there? I can hardly wait. Take me away from this misery. Carry me to see the glory of the King's throne. I'm done here..._

What's that? Is someone speaking to me?

 _Light is trying to break through my eyelids. I'm squinting. There's glorious white light filling my face. It's soft and sweet, and it's whispering to me:_

"Wait! It's not your time to go. You have more to do here."

 _Is that you, God? What do you want me to do?_

 _I try to keep listening, and suddenly I feel a hand shaking my shoulder, shaking me out of the fog. Another hand lifts my face, and I can barely make out the shape of a person kneeling beside me. My dreams turn to vapor. I feel the harsh world again. And these comforting hands. Suddenly the message is clear:_

Wake up and keep fighting.

—-

 _ **If you've read "Curtain Call," you know what happens. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! :D**_


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